Wiccan Shadows

By Lori J. Schiele

Something evil is waiting for her to make a choice.

When the high priestess of the Laurel Tree Coven suddenly disappears, Alex Grisham and her Wiccan sisters race against time to find her, even as a sinister power tries to thwart them. If they fail to solve the mystery before the festival day of Samhain, the world is doomed.

Alex's emotional search leads to her live-in boyfriend, Glenn, and Dan, a sexy animal control officer with too many dark secrets. She's torn between loving them both, but now she knows that one of them is the source of the unspeakable evil and plans to unleash it on mankind.

But which man is it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BelleBooks
• Release date: May 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781610260039

Lori J. Schiele

Born and raised just outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Lori J. Schiele is an eclectic Wiccan with a deep and devoted love for animals, especially cats and wolves. She currently lives in Philadelphia with her boyfriend, nine "special needs" cats and a tankful of fish. Wiccan Shadows, Book One of the Wiccan Sisterhood is her first published novel.

Book preview

Also by Lori J. Schiele from ImaJinn Books

Wiccan Moonlight

Book Two in the Wiccan Sisterhood Series

Coming soon

Wiccan Shadows

The Wiccan Sisterhood Book One

by

Lori J. Schiele

ImaJinn Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

ImaJinn Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61026-003-9

Print ISBN: 978-1-61026-002-2

ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 by Lori J. Schiele

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

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Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Background (manipulated) © Unholyvault | Dreamstime.com

Wolf (manipulated) © Mikael Males | Dreamstime.com

Triquetra symbol (manipulated) © Hollyvector | Dreamstime.com

Man (manipulated) © Curaphotography | Dreamstime.com

:Eswq:01:

Dedication

To Linda Kichline at ImaJinn Books for taking a chance on me and holding my hand all the way through. I hope I don’t let you down.

And to Trish Lazarus who did such a spectacular job on the cover art.

To my Dad, my very first editor, who encouraged and helped improve my writing since I wrote my first story when I was only eight.

And to my Mom, who was always willing to take me to the library so I could get my book fix when I was as young as four.

To Beth C. and Deb B. for their willingness to read draft after draft, as well as for their ideas and helpful criticism.

To Doug for his love, dedication and never-ending support. You never doubted me, and never let me give up on myself, even when I sometimes wanted to.

And to my family of feline four-leggers: Jubilee, Piper, Julie, Pigeon, Merlin, Blackbird, and Cooper (as well as Clovis, Harley, Gambit, Scotty and Logan who have passed on to the Summerland.)

And to my most beloved feline, Bamf, my Rune, who died just short of her 20th birthday just last year. I loved her the longest and loved her the most. She will always be in my heart.

And to everyone else who ever believed in me. I thank you.

I love you all.

Blessed be.

Prologue

"Bide the Wiccan law, we must

In perfect love, in perfect trust.

Eight words the Wiccan Rede fulfill:

And ye harm none, do as ye will.

And ever mind the Rule of Three

What ye send out comes back to thee

Follow this with mind and heart

And merry ye meet, and merry ye part."

—The Wiccan Rede

SOMETIMES I HATE cats. Celia tugged her denim jacket closed against the chill and huddled into herself for warmth, cursing the entire feline species.

Dusk had crept in and the woods around her had a murky and desolate feel. The sky was nearly blocked from view by the thick mass of tree branches, their gnarled limbs plagued with dead and shriveled leaves. The air was moist and dirty, and growing colder by the minute.

Not for the first time, Celia considered going home. She could be curled up on her couch in front of the fireplace with a book and a mug of herbal tea. Gordy was at home waiting for her. He had asked her not to go. She should’ve listened.

Once again, she scanned the darkened landscape of thick shrubbery and nearly leaf-bare trees, hoping to spot a pair of suspicious amber eyes or a glimpse of fur. There was nothing.

Where were the damned cats?

Celia wondered, yet again, why she had agreed to help Jen. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, sitting in the dark and inhospitable woods, she wasn’t so sure.

Before Jen, Celia had never heard of a feral cat. She had never considered that thousands—even millions—of these unfortunate creatures roamed wild, living off garbage, small wildlife, and handouts from Good Samaritans.

Feral cats, her friend had explained, were elusive creatures whose ancestors had been domesticated house pets, but were now essentially wild animals. They were furtive and fearful of people and often lived short and difficult lives, seeking shelter in wooded areas and abandoned buildings.

Celia remembered seeing her first feral—a scruffy tabby with mangled ears. The cat had spun wildly, like a pinwheel, beating itself against the metal bars of the harmless trap that contained it. Once Jen covered the trap with a towel, the terrified creature ceased its self-battery and, instead, cowered in abject terror. Its pupils were dilated, ears plastered to its well scarred head, looking as if it was certain death was coming in the form of the two women towering over it.

That Jen wanted to help these cats was admirable and Celia decided she wanted to help as well. She couldn’t commune with animals like Jen could—except for Gordy, her familiar, of course—but she still cared about them, as she cared for all living things. Together, she and Jen had already trapped, neutered and released four separate colonies, thirty-two cats in all. Over time, that would cut down the local feral cat population by thousands.

Celia understood Jen’s need to help. She was a veterinary technician, married to the head veterinarian at Briarwood Veterinary Clinic. Her familiar was a semi-tamed feral cat, an antisocial creature named Julius. Celia didn’t have the same burning need, or Jen’s unique ability, but she was her friend, her Wiccan sister, and she wanted to help.

For the first time, however, Celia began to doubt her decision. The most recent feral colony was located in a wooded area behind the abandoned drive-in theater. For days, the two of them had driven out at dusk, leaving the car in the pockmarked, gravel parking lot to haul the humane cage traps into the woods. Once the cats realized that fresh, fishy-smelling canned food was available, they made themselves known. There were at least a dozen scrawny and flighty mongrel cats, with darting eyes and quivering nostrils, slinking from the shadows to investigate the enticing smells. She and Jen had already managed to trap five.

But tonight, for the first time, Celia was alone. Jen couldn’t find a babysitter for her son and had to stay home. Uncertain, Celia had agreed to try on her own. Jen, and the cats, were counting on her. Besides, she had helped Jen dozens of times. She knew the ropes well enough. What could go wrong?

Now, she reconsidered that question. She had been out for nearly an hour without spotting a single cat. The last few times, the cats had appeared within minutes, driven by their growling stomachs and the promise of easy food. She had set the traps right. She’d used the right food. She was the proper distance—far enough away that the cats would feel safe to approach, but close enough to reach the trap quickly once the door snapped closed.

Celia was doing her part. Why weren’t the cats doing theirs?

Involuntarily, Celia jumped at a rustling in the brush nearby. A twig snapped and her eyes darted toward the sound. It was then that she realized how dark the woods had become. While she had been locked in thought, night had fallen.

Like a cemetery, the woods were beautiful during the day, but twilight caused a transformation into a desolate and eerie, even hostile, landscape. An early fall had nearly stripped the trees bare, their almost leafless branches poking out like skeletal fingers. Dead and dying leaves littered the hard, packed ground. An unnatural quiet, left by the absence of crickets and other crepuscular creatures, filled the wooded area.

With Jen, Celia had never consciously considered how creepy the woods actually were. But now she was alone and all too aware. Unconsciously, her hand reached up to clutch the amulet at her throat. She wished, yet again, that she had listened to Gordy and stayed home.

The rustling sounded again. Celia tried to rationalize the noise. It could be the cats finally coming for the food. Or maybe a neighborhood dog or an illegal hunter.

Celia wanted to believe one of these—any of these—but she couldn’t. A chill, not caused by the cold, crept the length of her spine. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees and she found she was shivering.

Cats or no cats, Celia knew it was time to go home.

She rose from the rotting log and brushed bark chips from her jeans. Squinting into the darkness, she searched for the traps and saw the faint rectangular outlines on the leaf-covered ground. She could smell the tuna-flavored food she used as bait. If she could smell it, certainly the cats could. So where were they?

Another twig snapped, this one behind her. Celia whirled toward the sound, nearly tripping in the process. Her eyes narrowed as she strained to search the darkness. Her chilled fingers dug through her pockets in search of a flashlight.

Another noise arose in the darkness—a throaty and threatening growl—and Celia’s flesh prickled with fear, her Wiccan senses screaming. Fumbling the flashlight from her pocket, she switched it on. The beam emitted a weak glow that cast shifting shadows into the darkness.

The growl grew louder. It was a single sound that seemed to come from everywhere and sounded ominously close. What kind of creature had the scent of cat food attracted? Whatever it was, Celia had no intention of waiting around to find out.

A branch cracked beneath a heavy footfall only yards from where she stood. That was all Celia needed to hear. Forgetting the traps, she bolted toward the car. Branches scratched her face. Sticker bushes snagged her denim jacket. The cold air burned her lungs. The flashlight fell from her chilled fingers, leaving her in total darkness, but she didn’t slow.

The car was parked near the edge of the lot, directly behind the torn movie screen and beneath a lighted pole. It wasn’t far away. She should see the lights any minute. Once she reached the car, she was sure she’d be safe.

Behind her, the growling continued. The snapping of branches and crackle of leaf litter marked its rapid passage toward her.

What in Goddess’ name could be chasing her? Celia had a terrifying feeling that she knew, but refused to acknowledge the thought. She wasn’t ready! This wasn’t how it was supposed to be!

Celia’s mind raced as fast as her legs, seeking another explanation. She wasn’t sure what was chasing her. She just needed to get away.

The night air seared her lungs like cold fire. Her heart pounded in her chest. She tore through the bushes and stumbled over fallen logs, desperate to reach safety. Not now, she thought. Not yet!

The car wasn’t far away. She should’ve reached it by now! Why wasn’t she there?

Behind her, something crashed through the brush. It was big. And it was gaining on her.

Where was the car!?

In the darkness, the woods were unfamiliar. Celia suddenly realized she was heading in the wrong direction, moving deeper into the woods. She should have reached the car by now, should have seen the lights, should never have come out alone in the first place . . .

No longer certain of her destination, but panicked beyond reason, Celia ran. She didn’t know how close her pursuer was. She could no longer hear past her own rasping gasps and panting retreat, but she could feel it. It was gaining on her.

Reduced to nothing but helpless prey, her instincts took over and she fled.

But as she scrambled through the strange and dark forest, her face and hands scratched and bleeding, lungs screaming in protest, realization took hold. Her Wiccan senses informed her that she was going to die. Right here. Right now. Prepared or not, she would die, alone and helpless, the life force violently wrenched from her body. Her blood would soak the hard, leaf-covered ground. Her flesh would feed the malevolent demon pursuing her.

With this realization, Celia stopped running. If it was her time, so be it. Again clutching the amulet at her throat, she turned to face her attacker. She was prepared to face her death with pride.

She was not prepared, however, for what crashed through the brush.

Before she could react, it was upon her.

She never had a chance.

From the safety of their hiding spots, the cowering feral cats heard the bloodcurdling screams, followed by the shredding of fabric and flesh, and the snapping of bone. Then silence.

Chapter One

I SAT UPRIGHT with a gasp, instantly recognizing my own room, my own bed. I was safe. Still, it took several minutes for my breathing to slow. White-knuckled fingers gripped the sheet and I released the wrinkled cloth in slow increments.

Beside me, Glenn sighed. He rolled over and fixed me with glazed eyes, his voice soft and full of sleep. You okay, Alex?

I nodded. Yeah.

Another bad dream?

Again, a nod. Yeah. Go back to sleep.

He reached out and squeezed my thigh. With a sigh, he shifted over and returned to sleep.

Careful not to disturb him further, I slid from beneath the covers. The hardwood floor chilled my bare feet as I pulled on my robe. I wouldn’t be returning to sleep. After my dreams, I never could.

Leaving the lights off, I padded through the quiet stillness to the kitchen and turned on the tea kettle. Rune, my Abyssinian familiar and housemate, leaped onto the counter. He head-butted affectionately against my hand.

Absently, I stroked the cat. My mind was still turned inward, considering the relevance of the nightmare images. It was the seventh time in as many weeks. Not the same dream, but always the same theme. A death scene. And always there was the dog. A hideous, black beast with red, glowing eyes.

The black dog had haunted my sleep for years, intermittently plagued me with its malignant presence. Just when I thought it was gone for good, it would return. But the dreams were never this persistent. Never this real.

Although I had resisted telling my Sisters, I knew it was time.

With tea steaming in my mug, Rune and I stepped out onto the back deck. It would be several hours until daylight. The still night air held a crisp chill. Winter was just around the corner.

Despite the cold, I sat back in the Adirondack chair and gazed up at the starlit night. The backward C-shape of the waxing moon hung low in the sky. I drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled through my mouth, watching the cloud of my warm breath mix with the steam from my mug. Rune hopped onto my lap and began to knead against my legs, reassuring me. I appreciated his company, his reassurance, his calmness, and wished I could believe him, but feared he was wrong.

Clearing my mind, I leaned back in the chair and waited for dawn.

By the time Glenn awoke a few hours later, breakfast was ready. He took a seat at the table, and I slid a plate of eggs and toast before him. A cup of black coffee steamed beside his arm.

Morning, I said, kissing his freshly-shaven cheek. The tang of his cologne pleasantly tickled my nostrils.

Glenn picked up his fork and adjusted his plate, but rather than eat, he turned in his chair. His blue eyes were full of worry. You didn’t come back to bed last night.

I shook my head. Rune and I watched the sun rise.

His eyes flickered toward the cat lying placidly in an early morning sunbeam. You wanna tell me about it?

Again I shook my head. I never shared my dreams with Glenn. He tried to be supportive, but he couldn’t truly understand. He wouldn’t understand how things were, what the dreams really meant. Not without knowing me—which he didn’t. Not the real me anyway.

Everything’s okay, I told him, and we both knew it was a lie.

Glenn sighed, then lowered his eyes to his plate and began to eat. I have a meeting with Transcor this afternoon, he said around a forkful of eggs. It looks promising. I think we’ll get the account.

I listened, knowing he was fighting off the ache of rejection. Whenever I closed off, he seemed to fill the silence with banter, as if showing me how easy it was to share. As if it could knock down my walls and let him in. If only it was that easy.

Are you working today? he asked.

I began scrubbing the pans in the sink. The store opens at ten.

Glenn wiped his plate clean with the end of his toast, then rose to his feet. He gulped the last of his coffee and set the cup down with a clink. Coming to the sink, he slipped his arms around my waist and kissed the back of my neck. I’ll see you tonight. Thanks for breakfast.

From the bay window, I watched his Lexus back down the drive. It was obvious that I’d hurt him. Glenn tried to understand, to respect my emotional seclusion, but sometimes I saw, in his eyes, that he wanted to throttle the truth out of me.

We’d been together for almost three years, had been living together for the past nine months. Things weren’t always easy between us. Glenn was a difficult partner—obsessive and overly dedicated to his job—but I was admittedly no easy catch myself. It was hard to find someone who could accept my secrets, my peculiar habits, my insomnia and late night wanderings. Glenn assured me that he could.

I had been completely unprepared the day, nearly a year ago, when he asked me to move in with him. Not in the condo where he lived, but in a house of my choosing. Any house. A home we could make our own.

It hadn’t been a hollow offer. Glenn meant it when he said any house. He could easily afford it. Still, I had hesitated. I loved Glenn, but could we live together? Would I be able to keep my secrets from him while residing under the same roof? And, once again, I questioned that, should I decide to tell him, would he truly be able to accept me for who I really was?

Glenn had assured me that me, my cats, and my flaws—whatever they were—were welcome. We resided in his heart and he wanted us in his home.

After some heavy consideration, I finally agreed. Together, Glenn and I found a modest-sized home on several acres of wooded land in the still-rural section of Warminster, Pennsylvania. It was close enough for his daily commute, but still provided the seclusion I needed. It was perfect.

Until the dreams began.

At first, I ignored them, passing them off as nightmarish images caused by my apprehension and the stress of the move. But the visions continued. For weeks, I awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for air. Each morning, I was exhausted, unrested and distraught. The images were not of the black dog, but of bloody, lifeless bodies. The voice of a dead woman, her words wispy and frail, spoken from a knife-slashed throat, warned me to leave. Warned me that evil resided in the house. That it would be coming for us.

Finally, I told the Sisters of my coven, sought their advice. They took the dreams seriously—as I knew they would—and quickly took action. First, we performed a polarity spell to verify the presence of malignant energy within my new home. Definitely malignant was the response.

The next night that Glenn went out of town on business, the coven met to perform a ceremonial cleansing. Using herbs, incense, candles and powerful chants, we willed the evil from the house. After several long and exhausting hours, it seemed to work. I slept dreamlessly that night for the first time in weeks.

The next morning, Wrigley was dead. He was Rune’s brother. Not my familiar, just a cat. But he was still part of my family and his death was the final blow. When Glenn returned, I told him we had to move.

Glenn had proven his devotion that day. Although I wouldn’t provide an explanation, he put the house on the market without obvious question or complaint. Not long after, we moved into a two-story Colonial in Horsham. It wasn’t as perfect as our first home. It was a longer drive for Glenn and too populated for my tastes, but the visions hadn’t followed. For months, they stayed away.

And now the black dog had returned.

There had to be a reason. There always was.

I finished cleaning up the kitchen, then showered and dressed in jeans and an Old Navy sweatshirt. By nine-fifteen, I was in the car, heading for the store.

It was a clear day. The malachite-green Saab Glenn bought me as a birthday gift purred along the blacktop like the well-tended automobile it was. The morning was too cold for the top to be down, but I cracked the windows to let the wind fill the car. My fingers tapped the steering wheel to the sound of The Doors’ Roadhouse Blues.

Berkley’s Books was a used bookstore situated in the middle of a strip mall, sandwiched between a hair salon and Murray’s Meats. Neither place was open yet and the lot was nearly empty. I parked the Saab and stopped at the bakery at the end of the strip, instantly assaulted by the smell of fresh baked goods and the tempting aroma of brewing coffee. Curt, the pimple-faced teenager behind the counter, made idle chatter while he prepared my daily tea and muffin. Dropping the money on the counter, I thanked him and headed toward my store.

It wasn’t actually my store. It belonged to Robyn’s father, one of his many business ventures he had grown tired of. Robyn was one of my Wiccan sisters—the youngest member of the coven—and her father had given her the store. He perhaps hoped it would give his rebellious teenage daughter some sense of responsibility, or maybe a way for her to make a living after she dropped out of high school. Whatever the reason, it was our store to make or break as we pleased.

I opened the front door and stepped inside, the welcoming bell chiming my arrival to the silent expanse. The familiar musty odor of used books washed over me like an old friend as I disengaged the alarm system.

Morning sunlight shown through the dirt-smudged front windows, illuminating several overflowing boxes beside the counter—recent donations that would need to be sorted and shelved. That would fill a good portion of the morning. One of the boxes was partially empty, piles of romance novels stacked beside it. Obviously Robyn had already started on the task.

Moving to the back room, I slipped out of my jacket and turned on the stereo. Enya began to lilt from the speakers, spreading a calming essence throughout the store.

The telephone rang. On the way to the counter, my foot caught on the stack of romance novels and they toppled to the carpet. I cursed, doomed to re-alphabetize.

Berkley’s Books, Alex speaking.

Alex, it’s me.

Hey, Jen. In the background, the sound of barking dogs told me she was calling from work.

Have you heard from Celia?

I stretched the telephone cord around the counter to straighten the romance novels. A dozen bronze and chiseled men—posing stoically beside eager and well-endowed women—were smeared across the threadbare carpet in all their lustful glory.

No, I thought you were going trapping last night, I replied.

The babysitter was sick so Celia went by herself. I haven’t heard from her and there’s no answer at her house.

Maybe she didn’t catch anything.

She would’ve returned the traps.

I refused to give in to the panic in her voice. Maybe it was late.

Then why isn’t she answering the phone?

I didn’t have an answer for that. There were a thousand excuses I could offer, any of which could be true, but things were starting to feel strangely off.

Can you drive over there? I asked.

Mark’s starting surgery in a few minutes.

The silence hung over the line. I glanced at the antique wall clock above the cash register. The store was supposed to open any minute.

I sighed. Okay, I’ll drive by and make sure she’s okay.

The relief was obvious in Jen’s voice. Thank you. You’re fabulous. Hold on a second. What—? I heard the muffled sound of someone talking, then she was back on the line. Alex, I’ve gotta go. Call me when you get there; just let me know she’s okay.

No problem. Talk to ya soon.

I untangled the phone cord and set the handset back into the cradle, glanced again at the clock. It would take fifteen minutes to get to Celia’s, fifteen minutes back. The store would open almost an hour late. But some things were more important than used books.

I scrawled a quick sign that the store would open at eleven o’clock and posted it on the front door on my way out. Celia was okay. I would just make sure.

Chapter Two

CELIA LIVED IN an old Victorian in the suburbs off Easton Road in Horsham. Although it was really too much house for a single woman, it was where she had grown up and had been left to her, along with the deed, by her parents when they passed on.

Her battered gold Corolla was missing from the driveway. Parking my car, I shut off the engine, listened to the silence. A sense of uneasiness crept over me like a chill wind.

I climbed out of my car and walked up the drive to peer in the grimy windows of the two-car garage. My eyes scanned the cluttered darkness. Dusty piles of boxes and yard equipment sat lonely and forgotten in the gloom.

The wrought-iron gate squealed in protest as I made my way up the cracked walkway toward the silent house. Fallen leaves layered the front yard, nearly erasing any trace of the overgrown grass underneath. Overgrown holly bushes blocked the path like verdant sentinels. Celia’s house had really become run-down. We could offer to help her fix it up, but that would be a problem for another day.

I tried the front door, but it was locked. Opening the torn screen door, I banged on the glass inset. There was only silence from within.

Shielding my eyes against the glare, I peered inside. Gordy was standing in the foyer, watching me. Gordy, where’s Celia? I shouted through the door.

He cocked his head, listening.

Go get Celia, I told him, but knew it was useless. He was Celia’s familiar, but with anyone else, he was just an unneutered and ill-trained bulldog.

While Gordy stared at me, I used my key to open the door. Once I was inside, Gordy’s wrinkled face broke into a doggie grin. He wriggled his way toward me in a crouch-walk, his belly pressed to the ground, corkscrew nub of a tail wagging so hard his entire hind end shook. Within moments, my shoes and pant legs were thoroughly snuffled and covered in dog drool.

With the over exuberant greeting out of the way, Gordy trotted beside me while I checked through the house, occasionally calling out for Celia. It was obvious she wasn’t there.

In the kitchen, a pot of leftover vegetable stew sat, cold and congealed, on the stove. There was no sign of breakfast dishes.

Gordy had left an unsightly, and noxious, pile by the back door. That, unfortunately, didn’t tell me much. Even under normal circumstances, he was poorly housebroken and had even been known to lift his leg on unsuspecting visitors.

Upstairs, Celia’s bed was made, but there was no way to know when it had last been slept in. Her office was empty, the computer turned off. Her most recent manuscript sat beside the keyboard, patiently waiting for her attention. The altar in the spare bedroom appeared undisturbed, everything in its proper place.

Gordy led the way back down the stairs to the kitchen, overgrown toenails clicking on the tile. Cloud cover momentarily muted the morning sunlight peering through the windows and, for the first time, I realized the kitchen light was on.

I opened the side door. The outside light was on as well.

Gordy nearly knocked me down the stairs as he scrambled out into the fenced-in backyard. While he did his business, I looked around but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Celia’s greenhouse, at the back of the yard, contained an herbal garden that supplied many of our herbal basics. I peeked inside. Although Celia seemed to ignore the property’s upkeep, the herbs were well tended and flourishing. Everything looked in place.

When Gordy returned, we went back into the house. I searched Celia’s herb cupboard. The jars, wooden boxes and satchels were all carefully labeled and arranged. All the herbs, oils and powders seemed accounted for.

While I cleaned up Gordy’s noxious mess, I considered my options. There was no sign of forced entry, no indication that Celia was in trouble. There was nothing but my gut telling me that something was wrong. If only Gordy could talk.

Seeing me kneeling on the floor, the bulldog shuffled over with a squeaky bone and dropped it on my leg.

Thanks, I muttered, giving it a gentle toss. He scrambled down the hall after the toy.

I had to call Jen, but didn’t know what to tell her. Celia could simply be out shopping. Or maybe she had a meeting with her publisher. There was any number of reasonable excuses why she wasn’t home.

Then why was the hair on the back of my neck standing up? Why were my Wiccan senses on full alert?

Using the kitchen phone, I dialed Jen at work.

She’s in surgery, I was informed. Can I take a message?

I hesitated, not sure what to say. No, just tell her I’ll stop by.

And you are?

Oh, sorry. Alex, I told the receptionist. I’ll be there in half an hour.

Hanging up the phone, I glanced down at the dog gnawing on the squeaky bone, making the plastic toy sound like a strangling duck. Did I leave Gordy in the house and hope he didn’t destroy anything? Or did I take him with me and hope he didn’t destroy anything? It was a tough call.

Staring at the drooling beast wasn’t making my decision any easier. Finally, I dug through the kitchen drawer and located a pen and paper. I left a note, telling Celia that Gordy was with me—should she return—then took his harness and leash off the wall hook.

Instantly, the bone was forgotten. The dog stood at my feet, eyes bright, ears perked, nub tail wriggling in eager anticipation.

Putting a harness on an overexcited bulldog, I discovered, was a lot like trying to get a greased pig into a child’s snowsuit—or so I imagined—but after several minutes of struggling and cursing, we were ready to go. Muttering a silent prayer, I let Gordy drag me out the door.

Once we were in the car with Gordy panting and snuffling in the back, overgrown toenails digging into my leather seats, I used my cell phone to call Robyn. After several rings, the phone was lifted off the hook. There was a loud crash, a scuffle, several curses and finally a gruff, Hello?

Robyn, it’s me. Sorry I woke you.

She grunted a reply.

I’m sorry, but I need you to open the store.

I could see her, sprawling in bed, bleary eyes trying to focus on the bedside clock. It’s already ten of eleven.

There were snuffling noises in the backseat and I dreaded cleaning up the accumulating drool. I know, but I have to go see Jen. Gordy’s with me.

Is he okay?

He’s fine.

There was a momentary silence as Robyn’s sleepy mind wrapped around my words, then she was instantly awake, her tone sharp. Where’s Celia?

I forced a casualness into my voice that I didn’t feel. We don’t know. She went trapping last night. We’re not sure she came home.

Silence spanned the phone line.

Can you open the store? I asked before Robyn had time to start a barrage of questions I couldn’t answer. I’ll try to be there by noon.

Robyn’s response was hesitant, shaky. Sure. Keep me posted, okay?

You bet. I hung up the phone and turned to check on Gordy. He was reclined on the backseat, chewing happily on the seatbelt clip. No, Gordy, I said sharply. Bad dog.

He stared at me and kept chewing.

BATTLING MY WAY up Street Road through mid-morning traffic, I finally made it to Briarwood Veterinary Clinic. It was a small brick structure with large, fenced-in runs jutting off the back. There were several cars in the parking lot and an elderly man walking a golden retriever around the front grass.

Gordy struggled his way out of the backseat and proceeded to sniff every square inch of ground between the car and the front door. He lifted his chubby leg in several places, marking his trail like a canine Hansel and Gretel.

Inside, the waiting room smelled of disinfectant and dog pee. The room was empty aside from a young woman reading a magazine, a cat carrier at her feet. Gordy barreled over and crammed his face against the cage door, eliciting an explosive hiss from the startled feline trapped inside.

I smiled apologetically at the woman and dragged Gordy toward the front desk.

The receptionist was young, her long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. The nametag on the front of her dolphin-print scrubs said her name was Sonia. She was on the telephone, explaining how to properly obtain a urine sample to a dimwitted, or unwilling, client.

Yes, just stick it underneath her when she squats. She offered me a tired and apologetic smile. "That’s right. Yes, exactly, just stick it right under there. Yes, that’s right. Yes, in the refrigerator until your appointment. That’ll be fine.