Cursed Moon

Book 2: Prospero's War

by Jaye Wells

Genres: Contemporary Fantasy; Epic Fantasy; Historical Romance

Synopsis

The last thing patrol cop Kate Prospero expected to find on her nightly rounds was a werewolf covered in the blood of his latest victim. But then, she also didn't expect that shooting him would land her a job with the Magic Enforcement Agency task force, who wants to know why she killed their lead snitch. Book #2 in the Prospero's War series continues where DIRTY MAGIC left off.

Release date: August 12, 2014

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 400

Sample

October 17

New Moon

If you want to know your future, the last person to ask is a fortune-teller. Most of them don’t have an Adept bone in their body, much less a sixth sense or whatever bullshit Mundanes called the ability to know the unknowable.

“Come closer, lady,” said a three-pack-a-day voice. “For ten bucks I’ll tell you your fate.”

I paused by the carnival stall and glared at the gypsy who had the misfortune to choose me as her mark. She sat behind a card table covered with a cheap crushed-velvet scarf. A red kerchief covered her gray hair, and dozens of gold bangles clinked together on her weathered arms. Her eyebrows were drawn in too thick and black, and her teeth too crooked and yellow, like a sepia image of a rickety fence. I couldn’t tell if she was 50 or 150, but the twinkle in her eyes told me she was a natural-born bullshitter.

“No need,” I said, my smile like a pink worm on a hook. “I already know my future.” In my five years as a cop, I’d seen too many desperate people hand their last nickels to charlatans like this not to fuck with her a little.

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

I pointed to the watch on my right wrist. “Lunch.”

My partner, Drew Morales, chuckled beside me. His muscled forearms were crossed, and his expression was the amused smirk of a cop watching a crook hang herself with her own rope.

The fortune-teller narrowed her kohl-smudged eyes. “I see secrets on you, girl,” she said in a low, knowing tone that pinned my stomach to my spine.

My smile dissolved. I reminded myself that psychics were frauds. She didn’t know my secrets. “And I see you haven’t posted a permit to perform Arcane acts in public,” I said, hoping the shame in my gut didn’t seep into my words. “You want to talk about that?”

She aimed her left forefinger and pinkie out like horns. “Devil.”

I forced a dismissive laugh, like the curse hadn’t hit me directly in the conscience. “Lady, you have no idea.”

“It’s not worth it, Kate. Let’s go.” Morales plucked my sleeve.

A few stalls later I sidestepped a rug rat in a SpongeBob SquarePants costume and pretended not to notice my partner’s speculative glance.

“What’s eating you today?”

“I thought once I’d made detective I’d be able to put the bunions of patrol work behind me.” I glanced around the square at the kids in costumes running from stall to stall collecting candy.

“At least now that you’re on the task force, you can wear jeans instead of being stuck in a uniform.” He nodded toward a pair of BPD officers in their blues standing by one of the ticket booths. “Besides, the covens have been quiet lately. If we weren’t out here, we’d just be stuck behind desks with our thumbs up our asses while the BPD got to have all the fun wrangling the moonies.”

I looked at him like he might be one of the lunatics in question. “You might want to look up ‘fun’ in the dictionary.”

He ignored my sarcasm and took a deep breath. “Least we’re getting some fresh air.”

I took an experimental sniff and sneezed from the hay they’d brought in for the Halloween Festival. Normally the city held the event closer to the actual holiday, which was in two weeks, but with the Blue Moon bearing down on Babylon, the city council moved it up so kids could trick-or-treat safely. Pioneer Square had been filled with what seemed like a million jack-o’-lanterns, and local businesses—both Arcane and Mundane—had set up booths to pass out candy for the kids and sales pitches to the adults.

Before I could respond to my partner’s uncharacteristic glass-half-full comment, flute music filled the square. A shirtless man wearing goat horns and woolly pants with fake hooves wove his way through a crowd on the steps of City Hall. Like many of the people at the festival, he wore a black mask that obscured the upper half of his face.

“What’s this guy’s costume?” Morales asked.

“He’s a satyr.”

He shot me a look like I’d spoken in tongues.

“What?” I said. “I know shit.”

Morales and I paused on the edge of the group to watch. I crossed my arms and scowled at the performer. He had a thick beard, and tattoos covered every inch of his arms and much of his chest. The families around us bopped along with the melody, but their smiles were forced from hours of wrangling rug rats buzzing off high-fructose corn syrup.

I started to tell Morales we should move on, but the goat dude danced our way.

He river-danced around us a couple of times. I could feel his gaze groping my ass. When he came back around, I shot him a keep-away scowl. He paused in his flute playing to blow me a kiss before skipping away to bother someone else.

I turned to Morales. “Guess I should enjoy the boredom,” I said, nodding toward the retreating satyr. “The closer we get to the second full moon, the crazier these assholes are going to get.”

We started walking again before he answered. Despite our casual conversation, our eyes were scanning the square for any signs of trouble. “C’mon, it won’t be that bad.”

“Just you wait,” I said.

“I was in LA once during a Blue Moon,” he said. “Except I was undercover, so I got to help raise hell instead of keeping it under control. How many times have you worked a beat during moon madness?”

I glanced toward the rusted statue of a steel factory worker in the center of the square. “Enough to wish I had vacation saved up to get out of town.”

Another crowd had gathered near the statue, but I couldn’t see what attracted them there. Still, something kept my gaze locked on the spot. I couldn’t put my finger on what was bothering me. Call it cop intuition. Call it woman’s intuition. Something was—

“Something’s wrong.” Morales went on alert like a hunting dog.

Danger sounds different. It has a distinctive pitch. Sound crystallizes, air tightens. The herd gets spooked, and an invisible wave of metallic energy permeates the air.

We pushed through a crowd of clueless parents and their agitated children. It took a full minute to make our way to the statue. Two uniformed cops with hawthorn defensive wands beat us there.

I assumed they’d take care of the threat. But in the next instant a halo of energy flashed through the square. My nostrils flared at the acrid scent of ozone.

My protective instincts tightened my muscles for action. Someone was hexing the crowd with dirty magic.

Morales and I burst into the clearing. The first thing I saw was one of the cops humping the statue like a stripper on a pole. The other officer’s chest was bare and he was just a zipper away from flashing his little wand to the crowd. A woman undulated around the circle, her hands raised high above her head as if in surrender. A couple writhed on the ground. Hands groping. Mouths hungry. Pelvises grinding.

And standing over them all, holding a black plastic cauldron, was a motherfucking leprechaun.

His costume—too short for his five-foot-and-spare-change frame—was a green double-breasted blazer, matching tights, and two black shoes with shiny silver buckles. A bowler hat on his head tipped jauntily forward over greasy brown hair. And on each cheek, he’d painted a jagged black lightning bolt.

He turned to face us, and a small plume of glittery golden powder spilled from the cauldron’s wide mouth.

I had my weapon in my hand before you could say Erin go Bragh. “Stand down!” I shouted in my best or-I’ll-shoot tone.

A single black brow disappeared under the brim of the hat. His gaze went to the salt flare gun in my hand. Every criminal in the Cauldron knew that the rock salt’s purpose was as much about inflicting pain as it was neutralizing magic.

Beside me, Morales aimed his Glock at the guy. “Put down the cauldron!”

As it turned out, fake leprechauns are surprisingly fast runners. One second he was staring down the barrels of our guns, and the next the bastard took off. The tails of his jacket flapped in the breeze, and it was a miracle of physics that he managed to keep his hat attached to his head. Morales and I exchanged shocked looks and took after the little shit.

“We need EMS at Pioneer Square,” I yelled into my phone. “Two officers down and several civilians hexed.”

“Ten-four, Detective Prospero,” the dispatcher replied. “On their way.”

“Stay with him,” Morales snapped. “I’ll cut through the alley and head him off at the intersection.”

He veered off to the left. I dug in and ignored the burning in my thighs. My gaze locked in on the sequined clover mocking me from the back of the leprechaun’s coat.

A high-pitched, potion-mad giggle taunted me. “Ye can’t catch the Leprechaun Man!”

I considered shooting the asshole in his pot of gold.

Franklin Street curved around and for a split second I lost sight of my green prey. When I came around the bend, I got an eyeful of my six-foot-tall, muscle-bound partner squatting as if to catch a runaway toddler. The next instant Morales was flat on his ass with a green blur retreating in the distance.

“Come on!” I yelled and kept running.

Ten seconds after I passed him, Morales caught up. He didn’t look as winded as I felt, but judging from his expression he was definitely just as pissed off. “What kind of potion is this guy on?”

Instead of answering, I grabbed my salt flare again. “I’ll spray, you slay.”

After his quick nod, I stop running. Exhaled. Pulled the trigger.

A starburst of salt rocks exploded from the gun. Half the crystals hit the pinged off cars parked along the street. The other half shredded the leprechaun’s coat and tights, streaking the green fabric red with blood.

He stumbled, a hand sweeping toward the pavement for balance. But before he could regain his stride, Morales tackled.

The pair rolled through the streets. Morales’s deep grunt playing off the squeaky protests of our short, belligerent friend.

The fall didn’t faze Morales, who quickly got two fistfuls of green coat and pegged his prize to the brick wall.

“Put me down!” the perp yelled with a fake Irish accent.

“Or what, tough guy?” Morales said. He was barely winded. Not surprising. I’d seen glimpses of the illicit muscles he was smuggling under his shirt.

The leprechaun jutted his face forward. “Or I’ll hex ye!”

“How you going to manage that?” I asked. “You lost your pot of gold.”

He struggled in Morales’s hold. “Feisigh do thoin fein!”

I exchanged a WTF look with my partner. “You catch that?”

“What’s your name, Lucky Charms?” Morales asked.

“Sean Patrick Finnegan-O’Lachlan.”

I blinked. “That’s a mouthful.”

“Aye, lass.” He motioned toward his crotch. “I’ll give ye a mouthful.”

Morales dropped the guy on his ass. “Watch your manners.”

O’Lachlan scrambled up quickly and tried to take off again. I caught him by the collar. “Not so fast.” Grabbing his left hand, I wrenched it behind his back. A tattoo on his arm depicted a cup and, underneath, the words IN VINO VERITAS.

“In wine, the truth,” I translated.

“Odd,” Morales said. “I thought leprechauns loved beer.”

“That’s racist as shit,” he said, dropping the Irish accent.

I pushed him toward the ground. Once his ass hit the concrete, I said, “Stay.”

“Please,” my partner said. “Irish isn’t a race. It’s a nationality.”

O’Lachlan scraped Morales with a bitter glare. “Whatever, Cheech.”

I sucked in my cheeks and glanced at Morales. He stared down at the guy like he was an ant in need of a boot heel.

“Hey, asshole,” he said in a surprisingly even tone. “I prefer wetback.”

“Gentlemen,” I said, “can we get down to business?” I waited until both shot me grudging looks to continue. “What’s in the potion?”

The perp spat at my feet. “I ain’t tellin’ you shit, lassie!” The guy pressed his lips together, twisted a finger in front of them, and mimed tossing away the key.

“I’ll call a squad car.” I turned away from the pair to call it in. Since we’d run several blocks during the pursuit, I glanced around to get my bearings. Back when I was still in uniform my beat had been the Cauldron, across the Bessemer Bridge from the downtown square where the Halloween Festival was held. The muted bite of sirens in the distance didn’t give me a lot of hope we’d get a car. But I tried anyway because I didn’t want to get stuck pushing this turd through booking at the precinct.

“Wear you out, did I?” O’Lachlan said to Morales behind me. “You should cut back on the donuts.”

I snorted and looked back over my shoulder. The leprechaun slouched on the ground with a torn jacket and one missing shoe. Thanks to the tussle with Morales, one of his lightning bolts was smeared across his cheek like shit.

My partner on the other hand loomed over the small man like some sort of vengeful Aztec god. “Cops eat donuts.” He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and flipped it open. “I’m MEA. We prefer a nice Danish.”

“Magic Enforcement Agency?” O’Lachlan’s eyes widened. “Thought you guys went after the big wizes.”

“Apparently, we also go after little assholes.” Morales used his left hand to rub his eyes. The scars webbing across the knuckles were from a fire that had killed his Adept father and little sister when he was a kid. After that trauma, he’d chosen to leave the Lefty world behind and present himself as a Mundane. Usually he did everything with his right hand—until he got stressed or overtired. Then he forgot he wasn’t naturally a Righty.

Dispatch came on, so I turned back around and gave her our approximate location. “We need a squad car to pick up the perp from the Pioneer Square attack.”

“Hold on a sec,” she said, “I need to see if I can find a free car.”

“Can’t you reroute one from the festival?”

“After your perp hexed those cops, a riot broke out. It’s under control, but every available car in the area is there for all the arrests.”

“Shit.”

“Amen, sister. Gonna get worse the closer we get to Halloween, too. My advice?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Take him in yourself. Gonna be an hour, two maybe, before we can get someone to you.”

I hung up and turned back to Morales. “We’re gonna have to take him in. This fucking Blue Moon is a pain in my ass.”

O’Lachlan crossed his arms and grumbled something like, “Ain’t seen nothing yet.”

“You want to hang here while I go get the car?”

Morales shook his head. “I’ll get it.”

“Understood.” I jerked my head back toward the square. “See you in a few.”

An adrenaline-spiked cop plus a shit-talking perp made a dangerous enough combination. But when you added a hefty dose of full-moon-batshit energy to the mix, you had yourself a recipe for a real shit sandwich. As a lapsed Adept, Morales was more susceptible to the erratic energies of double full moons than other Lefties. Better for me to babysit O’Lachlan than to put my partner in the position of facing a battery charge because he kicked the wannabe leprechaun in the shamrocks.

After Morales jogged off, I grabbed O’Lachlan off the ground. “Why did you hex all those people?” I spun him around and pressed him against the wall for a frisk.

“You owe me two hundred bucks.”

I tilted my head. “Like hell I do.”

“Your fuckin’ partner tore my jacket when he tackled me. I’ll never get my deposit back now.”

“Oh yeah?” His tights had large holes and runners from the asphalt. “Maybe you should be more worried about coming up with bail than paying the costume shop.” I made quick work of patting down his undercarriage.

“Don’t be shy, lassie,” he said, falling back into his unconvincing brogue. “That clover’s lucky, if ya know what I mean.”

I didn’t rise to the bait. “You didn’t just decide to hex cops at a carnival for shits and giggles. It took some planning.”

“Hmm.”

In his right jacket pocket, I found a lump. Sticking my hand inside, I grabbed the item and pulled it out. “Well, lookie here.” I turned him around and held up an ampoule of glittery golden powder so he could see. “Who sold it to you?” Since he was right-handed and high off a potion when we first saw him, I already knew he wasn’t an Adept. Mundanes couldn’t cook real magic, and from the spectacle I’d witnessed in the square, this magic wasn’t just real—it was real dirty.

“Would tellin’ ye help my case?”

“Maybe I’ll put a good word in if I think you’re honest.”

He lips made a sound like a fart. “Bullshit you will.”

“Try me.” I raised a brow.

His expression tightened into something approximating wounded pride. “I’m no snitch.”

“Maybe some time in the can will help you tune your singing voice.” I pushed him back to the ground. “Stay.”

I looked at the powder. An overwhelming, forbidden urge rushed through me to skip the red tape altogether and read the potion. Not all Adepts could read energy signatures, but it was one of my gifts—or curses depending on your perspective. Still, evidence gained through Arcane processes wasn’t admissible in court. Besides, when it came to magic, I was supposed to be firmly on the wagon.

But it would be so easy to just open that bag. So easy to read the potion’s secrets. So easy to target the guilty coven.

Despite the chill in the air, my left palm was slick and trembling. Something in my gut opened, like a black hole that wanted filling.

A throat cleared next to me. “You all right, lass? You’re looking kind of… off.”

I jerked my head up, realizing too late I’d been about to take a running leap off the wagon.

Again.

The sound of an engine signaled Morales’s impending arrival.

Time to remind myself that magic might be easy, but it was never simple.

My pulse did a little soft-shoe in my chest. I stuck the ampoule in my pocket and swallowed to cleanse the tarnish of guilt from my tongue. I grabbed O’Lachlan’s arm and pulled up and toward the curb. “C’mon.”

Since his hands were bound I had to hoist him up into the SUV. He wriggled across the seat, and I followed him. Morales glanced back over the seat. “Everything okay?” He was frowning like his instincts were telling him otherwise.

I wiped my damp palm on my jeans. “Yep. Why?”

“You’re all flushed.”

I tilted my head and prepared to verbally punt. “Morales, I just spent the last fifteen minutes chasing down a leprechaun. Sorry I’m not looking spring fresh.”

I worried I’d overplayed my sarcasm. But he blew out a breath. “All right then.” He turned back toward the steering wheel. “Settle in, Mr. O’Lachlan, we’ll have you at the Hoosegow Hilton in no time.”

The perp spat on the floor. “May the devil cut the head off ye and make a day’s work of your neck.”

“First of all, don’t spit in the car. It’s disgusting,” I said. “And second, the devil can do his worst so long as he buys me dinner first.”

O’Lachlan looked me directly in my eyes. His own had lost the fevered glow from the potion he’d taken earlier, but, even sober, his irises retained the icy-blue hue of a dirty magic addict. “Once the Blue Moon gets here, you’ll all be praying for the devil, bitch.”



Later that evening, I pushed my way through the kitchen door with a grocery bag in my right hand and my gun rig in my left. The mail was clamped between my teeth.

Arriving home to play house after a day of chasing down scumbags makes for an uneasy transition. Back when my brother, Danny, was little, I usually had to hide in the bathroom for five minutes and do deep-breathing exercises to release the pent-up adrenaline before I could face putting on my nurturing, maternal mask for the kid. But now that he was older, I found the same cop’s instincts that allowed me to handle criminals were also pretty handy in dealing with a sixteen-year-old.

“What’d you get?” Danny was at the table pretending to do homework in the hopes I wouldn’t notice the game device on his lap.

I swung the grocery bag up onto the tiled counter. “Come unload the bag and you’ll see for yourself.”

He sighed from deep in his gut, as if helping me was a burden only a saint could bear.

I began flipping through the mail while he unloaded the bag.

“Oh eww!” He turned and shot me an accusing look.

Setting down the private school tuition bill I couldn’t pay until after my next MEA overtime check cleared, I went to investigate the problem.

Grabbing the rotisserie chicken and sides from the grocery had seemed like a good idea at the time. Better than fast food, but not as time consuming as an actual home-cooked meal. But the container Danny held aloft like a gun at a murder trial held a pale-looking carcass swimming in a pool of congealed lemon-pepper-flavored grease.

I shrugged and took it from him. “It’s not that bad.”

“Like hell—”

He cut off the words when I pointed to the curse jar by the sink. I’d told him it was my way of maintaining a level of respect in our home, but the truth was, I added more money to it than the kid. I considered it a sort of savings account. Some people pulled pennies from couch cushions or sold plasma for extra scratch, but I paid for splurges with shits, damns, and the occasional fuck.

Danny shoved a buck into the jar before continuing. “I’m going vegetarian.” He turned and pulled a bottle of soda from the fridge.

“If you don’t want the chicken, you can have rolls and potatoes and—”

I realized with a start I hadn’t grabbed one green thing to serve with the meal. A salad or whatever. The little burst of heat in my stomach was the familiar sensation that accompanied the reminder that I was a failure of a role model. Didn’t matter that I hadn’t asked for the job. I took care of my responsibilities. It’s just that lately it felt more and more like parenting was a riptide I couldn’t outswim.

“And what?” he said, a challenge in his tone.

I put down the knife and turned to face him. “What do you want from me, Danny? I spent three hours at the precinct this afternoon trying to get one guy through booking. And that was after Morales and I had to chase the guy down. You don’t want chicken that’s your choice, but I’m not going to apologize for not catering to your refined palate with money I worked my ass off to earn.”

“Fine,” he said softly, “I’ll have the freakin’ chicken.”

The corner of my mouth quirked. I may not be a real mom, but I’d somehow managed to master the martyred tone my own mother had employed to guilt me into good behavior. I hated having to use it on him, but it got results. Pasting a June Cleaver smile on my face, I turned to set two full plates of food on the table.

We both sat and dug in. The kid had been right, the chicken was too greasy, but it helped counterbalance the overly dry mashed potatoes, so that was something.

A few minutes later I realized Danny was unusually quiet. He seemed to have recovered from the chicken discussion, so it couldn’t be that. Also, the electronic squawks and beeps that created our typical dinner soundtrack were conspicuously absent. Plus, he was staring into his mashed potatoes like maybe they held the secrets to the universe.

“What’s up?”

He jumped a little, like he’d forgotten I was there. “Nothing.”

I frowned and turned fully toward him while I wiped chicken grease off my hands with a paper towel. “Something happen at school?”

“What?” His brows lowered and he shook himself a little. “Yeah.”

I tamped down the flare of worry in my gut and tried to look not-too-judgmental. “Should I expect a call from the principal again?”

“Nah. Nothing like that.” He took in a deep breath and leaned back. “I—uh, well—there’s this thing.”

“What kind of thing?”

“There’s this new club at school I want to join.”

I blinked at him a couple of times. “A club? You?”

His face crumpled into an offended frown. “What? I do stuff.”

“Just surprised is all. You’ve never really been a joiner.” Off his deepening frown, I realized I was probably offending him. I swallowed and tried again. “What kind of club is it?”

His eyes widened, like he was surprised he’d gotten this far with the discussion. Guilt hit me upside the head. I’d always been protective of Danny—overprotective if you asked Baba—especially after almost losing him six weeks earlier. So it was no wonder he expected me to refuse outright without hearing details.

“Well, remember how that girl Pen was helping died a while back from the diet potion?”

Pen was my best friend, Penelope Griffin. She was also the guidance counselor at Meadowlake, the private school Danny attended. The girl he mentioned had gotten in trouble for taking the potion at school. Turned out her mother had been making her take it to lose weight, but before Pen could get the authorities involved, the girl overdosed. The mom was now in jail, but the incident left its scars on the Meadowlake community.

“One of the teachers started a group to promote kids staying off dirty magic.”

I didn’t point out that the girl in question had died from a completely legal potion sanctioned by the Federal Drug and Potion Agency, not some dirty brew cooked by a junkie wizard in the Cauldron. Instead I focused on my surprise over him wanting to join this type of organization. “You want to join an antimagic group?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“It wasn’t all that long ago you were begging me to let you learn how to cook.”

“This is different. The club is about preventing kids from becoming addicted to dirty magic. Jeez. I thought you’d support me in this.”

“I do—”

“Especially after what happened.”

I snapped my mouth shut. Those four little words were deceptively innocent considering he was referring to spending several days in a coma. Ramses Bane, the Grand Wizard of the Sanguinarian Coven, had dosed my kid brother with a dirty potion hoping it would make me drop off the case. Instead I’d shot the asshole with a salt flare and cooked dirty magic after a ten-year abstinence to save Danny’s life. Now Bane was being kept in a secure location while he awaited trial, and I was getting shit from Danny, who had no idea what I’d done to save his life.

Swallowing the knot of remembered fear in my throat, I readjusted my approach. “I support you joining an anti-dirty-magic club. Of course I do. It’s just I wasn’t expecting it, is all. We haven’t really talked about… what happened in a while. I wasn’t sure how you were feeling about it all.”

His young face hardened. “How do you think I feel? If it hadn’t been for John, I’d be dead right now.”

My hand tensed into a fist on my lap. John Fucking Volos. Letting him take the credit for saving Danny had been the only way to ensure no one found out I’d fallen off the magic wagon. Over the last several weeks there had been so many occasions when I’d wanted to scream the truth. Without the help of my ability to read potions, John never would have been able to finish the antipotion that eventually saved both his and Danny’s lives. But I hadn’t told anyone because in addition to lying about cooking dirty, I’d also failed to report evidence that fingered my uncle Abe as the mastermind of the entire scheme.

But I couldn’t very well contradict Danny’s praise of Volos with getting some probing questions I was nowhere near ready to answer. So I swallowed the bitterness and forced a smile. “So when does this club meet?”

He pulled back, like I’d surprised him. “Every Tuesday and Thursday until about six thirty.”

My brows rose. “The meetings will be two hours?”

“Mr. Hart said it would be longer in the beginning because we have a lot of work to do to get the club going.” He toyed with his cell phone. “Making posters and stuff, I guess.”

“How will you get home?” Normally, Pen dropped him off after school.

“I’ll get a ride from one of the other members.”

“If not, I bet Baba would come get you.” Baba was our septuagenarian Wiccan neighbor. With my crazy hours, she often stepped up to keep Danny company if I had late nights.

His face screwed up. “I’ll definitely get one of my friends.”

“What’s wrong with Baba getting you?”

“Her car, for one thing.”

I grimaced. It’s not that her old Cutlass Supreme was horrible, even though the avocado green made it look like some sort of ’70s time machine. The real problem was the bumper stickers she’d plastered all over the back. As a witch, she felt the need to broadcast her support of her fellow Mundane magic users in the form of messages like WITCHES DO IT IN CIRCLES. There were also stickers with slogans like HONK IF YOU LOVE NAKED BINGO and TOM JONES MAKES ME FEEL LIKE A WOMAN.

So, yeah, I couldn’t exactly blame the kid for not wanting to ride in her hooptymobile. I didn’t want to be seen in it, either.

“All right, ask your buddies. We’ll use Baba as a last resort for rides.”

His face cleared. “Thank you.”

My center warmed at the rare gratitude. “When’s your first meeting?”

“Next week. Mr. Hart said the permission forms need to be in by Monday.”

“Who is Mr. Hart again? I don’t know if I’ve met him.”

“He’s the new chemistry teacher. The form’s in my room.”

“Go grab it and I’ll sign it.” He was almost at the door when another question occurred to me. “Wait!”

He froze and turned slowly in that teenage