A Wreck of Witches: Teeming Dark: Witches, #1

By Nia Quinn

Magic and mayhem and ghost dogs, oh my…

 

I'm the plus-size witch who just wants to putter around my magical-plant nursery in peace, but nooo. The universe is conspiring against me, I swear.

 

The newbie witch down the street just went missing—five minutes before she was gonna give me a ride to our book club. Something magical is stalking through my mundane neighborhood, attacking my neighbors, and I've got everybody and their ghost dogs trying to "help" me out. 

 

Pssh, like I can't handle things by myself.

 

Oh, and my house—with a mischievous mind of its own—has decided this is the time to get up to more antics.

 

Just gotta wrangle all this nonsense before the Unawares figure out magic's real…

 

It'll be easy-peasy, right?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robot Dinosaur Press
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781949936636

Book preview

1

Someone screamed from the direction of my front porch. I jerked, tearing the last shipping label spooling out of the printer.

You’re not freaking out the mailman again, are you? I punched the reprint button, giving the white-painted wood ceiling a suspicious glance. Because we talked about that.

My office grew chilly. Great, I’d offended the House by suggesting I didn’t trust it to keep its promises. If the House wasn’t pranking innocent passersby, though, why was someone screaming in my yard?

I grabbed the old garden hoe I kept by the front door and twisted the doorknob, to no effect.

Gonna make me unlock it myself, eh? I clacked over the deadbolt. It thudded right back into the locked position.

The House hadn’t ever tried to keep me from going outside before. I peered through the gauzy curtains beside the door, but didn’t see anything sinister lurking in the yard, just some guy heading toward a car at the curb. Pulling the fabric aside, I took a closer look.

The guy was limping, trying and failing to run, one shredded pant leg showing off his mangled bloody calf.

What the— Open this door, right now.

The dead bolt clunked, and I slid out of the way as the door swung open.

Are you o—

The injured guy half fell into the car, which zoomed away haphazardly before he’d even slammed the door.

—kay?

I hefted my garden hoe, scanning my yard for what could’ve possibly attacked him. It wasn’t like I kept bear traps lying around.

Everything looked normal—flower beds, peony bushes, flagstone path, package on the porch—

Correction: packages. One big, and two identical mini-me packages off to one side. They were taped up like Amazon boxes, except the letters were garbled nonsense.

A splatter of blood decorated the far side of the larger package.

I narrowed my eyes and gave the box a nudge with the garden hoe.

The box erupted into a Lovecraftian nightmare, tentacles edged with teeth whipping in every direction, but mostly in mine. Crablike feet sprouted from the bottom of the box, and it skittered toward me, one serrated tooth grazing the tip of my nose as I leaned back, eyes wide.

A floorboard gave underneath my foot, and I stumbled back as the House slammed the door in the mimic’s face—tentacles?

Whatever.

A sinister crunch signaled the demise of my trusty garden hoe.

I got up off my butt and peered through the curtains again. The baby mimics were gobbling down wood shards while Mama Mimic made quick work of the metal hoe head.

There was no way that was healthy.

Thanks for the save, I’ve never seen a mimic that quick. Think that’ll make that package thief clean up his act? I left the window and gazed across the little shop I have set up at the front of the building. Speaking of which, how did he get as far as the porch, anyway? He catch you sleeping?

The House grumbled, a combination of beams settling and pipes clanking.

Sorry, silly question. I forget sometimes that you’re not omniscient.

I pulled out my phone, added ‘Look for garden hoe at yard sales’ to my to-do list, then swiped until I found the Mimic Management app. I dropped a pin on the map at my address and filled out the short survey.

Form: Package.

Quantity: Three.

Location: Front porch.

A much-too-loud computerized voice buzzed through my phone speakers, and I smashed down on the volume button.

"Willow will arrive at your location in twenty-six minutes to manage your mimic. If any Unawares made contact with your mimic, please call the Information Oversight Office and dial 666 at the prompt to report the incident. Thank you for choosing Mimic Management."

A little icon of a delivery truck popped up on the map not too far away, slowly chugging in my direction. A moment later the map vanished beneath the notification of my you-have-thirty-minutes-until-book-club alarm.

Right, I was running out of time. Gotta focus.

Back in my office, I shuffled the shipping labels together and slid them into a clear plastic folder. The House kindly opened the side door for me, and I trudged out into the garden, following the path alongside my herb garden toward the greenhouse.

The greenhouse looked almost as old as the House, and much fancier than anything you’d see these days—iron arches, teal glass, sweeping lines. I gave a firm tug at the door handle, and the stiff metal frame squealed as it swung open.

I really needed to remember to add WD-40 to my shopping list.

Humidity billowed out the greenhouse door, and I tied my blue hair back as I stepped inside. The glass panes were slightly distorted, blurring the view and adding to the secluded, homey feel. The whole place was festooned with plants, most just an inch or two in size, in greens and silvery greys, with pops of purple, pink, and gold.

Each one contributed to the unseen miasma of magic swirling through the sunbeams and the cool spritz of the misters.

I keep the more distracting plants at the far end of the greenhouse—those that spawn visions, put you to sleep, or worse. The effects of the plants closest to the door washed over me as I entered; I felt content, focused, the minor pains of crotchety knees and a headache lifting away.

The misters clicked off, and I wiped my face dry with the starry fabric of my dress. I tipped over the hot-pink salt-filled hula hoop by the door, and it struck the floor with a satisfying clatter. I stepped inside the makeshift warding circle. The hoop wasn’t much wider than me, but that was good enough.

Not like they made plus-size hula hoops.

My headache resurfaced, my focus frayed, and I was safe to shuffle down to the packaging table, kicking the hula hoop along with me. Maybe someday I could afford a better warding system, but not today. At least I hadn’t face-planted yet this week.

I plopped my folder of shipping labels on the table, the only dry surface in the place. My latest plant experiment was growing on the planting table behind me, and I couldn’t resist turning to check on it.

Hey there, little guys.

The plants nestled safely into the webbing before me were a shocking purple, their curved leaves springing out in all directions like a porcupine struck by lightning.

For simplicity’s sake, I call what I grow air plants. To all outward appearances, that’s what they are. Maybe a little more colorful, a bit glossier, a tad stranger than the species you’d find listed online.

Oh, and a lot more magical.

I had bred many generations of different plants to produce these purple ones, trying to recreate the abilities of a plant mentioned in Henderson’s 1377 Treatise on the Magickal Senses. No one I’d met in the magical community believed such a plant had ever actually existed, or could, and it had been my mission for the last several years to prove them wrong.

Maybe Henderson had been a drug addict, storyteller, or liar, but that didn’t preclude the possibility of a plant that would allow you to sense the hidden aspects of the magical world.

Breeding one wouldn’t hurt the finances either. Who wasn’t curious about the mystical things flitting about, skating just below the threshold of human senses?

Not that rent on a purportedly haunted house was steep, but life in the city wasn’t cheap, no matter what sacrifices you made.

Speaking of money . . . I blew a kiss at the closest purple plant and turned back to my packaging table, determined to focus on getting the latest batch of orders boxed up and ready to ship out. These would just barely cover next week’s bills, but not if someone requested a refund due to late shipment.

Things would be different if my new breed panned out. The purple plants should mature any day, beginning to exude their effect.

If they just cleared up pimples, I’d have to do some more crossbreeding. But if they revealed the magical world . . .

I glanced down at the labels in front of me.

Ack, right! Orders. Need to package the orders.

If I could just focus for twenty minutes, I could get everything ready to go. I set a timer on my phone, started my ‘best beats’ playlist, and snagged my favorite Focus plant, Reginald, settling it in the tiny wire orb pendant I wear on a long chain. Inside the hula hoop with me, Reginald could help me out big time.

I popped together a flat-pack box in time to the music, slapped the first shipping label on, and pulled up the order on my phone. One Anti-Fatigue plant, two Calm plants.

Maybe a stressed mom with two hyper kids?

The names on my online shop are commercialized for the masses—a lot more customers click when the listing says ‘Calm’ rather than the scientific name I’d given that breed: Zauberschlamassel.

Go figure.

I snagged two of said plants from the lattice to my left. One of my most popular varieties, they look like Oscar the Grouch got in a wrestling match with a furry cactus.

It’s safe to say people don’t buy them for their looks.

My phone vibrated, interrupting the music, and I glanced over to see it was a call, not a notification. It was Russell, my stepdad. I picked up.

You know I hate phone calls.

You know the keyboard on these things is way too tiny for me. Hey, munchkin. Russell’s voice carried a smile.

I’m putting you on speaker. I’ve got to finish packaging some orders before book club. What’s up?

It’s been a year since you moved away. You don’t have to forgive me, Maisie, but I’m going to keep apologizing.

I shuffled around the greenhouse with my hula hoop as he spoke, scooping up plants and cocooning them in packaging materials before tucking them away in each box with a care card. A pup on one of the Cooling plants had matured enough to separate, and I deftly tugged it from its mother.

I moved across the city, Russell, I called, not to Canada. I grabbed the next couple plants and scooted back to the table. I’m not coming back, if that’s why you’re calling.

It was stupid of me to try to find your dad. I thought knowing why he left, maybe even reconnecting, might help.

I can take care of myself, Russell.

"That I’m well aware of, munchkin. He chuckled. You make any friends over there yet?"

Oh, sure! I wrapped a Sensory Deprivation plant in tissue paper charmed with a muting spell. That was one effect I didn’t want splashing over onto hapless postal workers. I hang out with the gals from book club all the time.

Face-to-face, he would’ve sniffed out the white lie, but over the phone I could fake my tone well enough. I didn’t have time to worry about other people’s schedules and lives and MLM parties, or to listen to Russell extol the benefits of being less independent. He’d been a broken record about that ever since my mother died.

Her words drifted back to me, and I smiled. You’re so strong, you don’t need anybody. I’d only been a kid at the time, but even then she’d known I could stand on my own two feet.

Russell was still figuring that out.

Good. I know you’ve got to go soon, but I found something fun I think you’ll like. Come visit?

I paused, hands folded over the last sealed package. The anger and panic that had sent me running away last year had faded—well, the anger had, at any rate.

I didn’t want to keep punishing him.

No. I rushed on before the sting of that could settle on him. You should come visit me. I’d like you to meet the House, for one.

There was a brief silence on his end, and I checked to make sure the phone was still connected. I was usually the one with the slow responses.

I— I would enjoy that. Russell’s voice was rougher than before, and I flinched. I’d really hurt him by shutting him out.

I turned off speakerphone and brought the phone to my ear. I know you meant well, trying to find Dad. But that’s my decision to make, not yours.

It was a dumb idea, I—

It was sweet, but yes, a bit stupid. I forced a chuckle, and he joined in.

Let me know when you want me to swing by. I’ll be there.

Okay.

Bye, munchkin.

I hung up and lowered the phone, only for it to erupt in my hand, bells clanging. I nearly dropped it. Heart pounding, I canceled the alarm—I really needed to find a less panic-inducing way to manage my day.

2

Ronnie and her Subaru would be here in five minutes to pick me up for book club, which left me just enough time to grab what I needed.

I sniggled Reginald out of the wire pendant and popped in a new plant. Recently matured, the dusty-blue spirally plant was a new breed whose ability I didn’t know yet. Past experience had taught me that wearing new plants was the best way to figure their magic out.

Some are immediately obvious—suddenly you can see into the UV spectrum—whereas others take a little time. When the first bite of your chocolate cake tastes like shrimp, you suspect the cake, not the little green puffball dangling from your neck.

Not, that is, until everything else you eat that day takes on the same flavor.

Let’s just say that plant doesn’t sell too well.

I gathered up the packages, tucking the top box under my chin to keep the stack from toppling, then backed out through the greenhouse door and headed for the House, peering over the stack of packages as I navigated the not-quite-overgrown garden.

My gaze drifted over my arbor near the Seshadri family’s fence, roses above and benches below, and I slowed to a standstill.

The fence was clearly visible ten feet back to either side of the arbor, so why could I see thirty feet of garden through the arbor?

With a tree to boot?

I marched through the arbor, setting the packages on one of the benches. Sure enough, there was a new expanse of garden magically squished between the arbor and the fence. From inside the space, it looked wholly natural, as though it had always been there, and didn’t twist the laws of physics.

I planted my hands on my hips and turned toward the House. Are you telling me you can rearrange my garden too?! I yelled. Switching rooms around on me isn’t bad enough, now you’re turning my garden into a damn Tardis?

The House, of course, didn’t yell back.

I tugged a sunset-colored fruit off the tree growing in the center of the new area. Persimmon? I bit into it, and the warm taste of spices flooded my mouth, like a mild masala chai.

Persimmon, and deliciously ripe.

I laughed, and plucked a few more off the lower branches. Here I thought I’d maxed out my garden, plotted to within an inch of its life with rows of veggies, bushes of herbs, flowers for butterflies and bees and cutting.

What could I do with the extra space? Rose bushes? Tomatoes?

Hell, I could put in a pond—though I’d need a ward for mosquitoes. Maybe I’d get lucky, and turtles or frogs, or more magical pond denizens, would show up.

I glanced at the House. A year ago it had been in bad shape, mistrustful and lonely, but I thought we’d worked all that out long since. Why was it only now letting me know it had control of the garden as well?

How many more secrets was it keeping?

Buzz. I yanked my phone out again. Oh, perfect—Willow from Mimic Management was here.

The packages would be fine on the arbor bench for now. I rounded the corner of the house just as the white truck with ‘Pitt’s Pest Control’ plastered on the side pulled up at the end of my front walkway, blocking the view of the porch from the two houses across the street to keep any nosy neighbors from witnessing the imminent mimic-wrangling.

Willow jumped down from the open cab, a five-foot steely-haired woman who could be somebody’s bodybuilder grandma. Her getup would’ve blended right in with a lineup of blue-collar uniforms, except for the silver fire extinguisher she was toting.

Hiya. Her deep voice carried a smile. You look like you’re expecting me—this the right house?

I nodded, still juggling the persimmons. The mimics are on the front porch.

Peachy. Just give me a minute with Ol’ Smoky here, and you’ll be good to go.

She glanced around casually, checking sight lines, but my overenthusiastic garden made it tricky to see the porch well from most anywhere.

The bounce of a basketball got our attention, though. Two houses down, a kid not much bigger than the basketball was making valiant efforts to toss it more than three feet above his head.

Willow hurried over, knocked on the front door, and within moments the kid was scooped up by a concerned dad and shuffled safely inside.

What’d you tell him?

Willow hefted the extinguisher. Mole fumigation. Toxic for thirty minutes.

Is it? I edged away from the porch.

Nah. Might get a little high if you huff it, though.

She trotted over to the porch, keeping a respectful distance from the trio of terrors, all of whom had retracted their toothy tentacles by this point and looked like innocent packages again. With a sweep of the extinguisher nozzle, she fogged them with the fae equivalent of opium powder—assuming the company hadn’t changed the formulation since last time.

After letting the cloud settle for a moment, Willow masked up and strode closer, plucking up one of the baby mimics with no reaction from any of the three. Just quiet, still, unassuming cardboard boxes.

Yeah, right.

She loaded it into the back of the truck, followed by its identical sibling, then gave another precautionary fog before hefting Mama Mimic to join them.

A blast with a matching silver leaf blower dispersed the rest of the powder, leaving my porch looking like its usual self—concrete slab, white railing that could use fresh paint or a good scrub, old wooden bench I liked to sit out on in the evenings.

The splatter of blood from Package Thief’s unfortunate incident was new, though.

I’d have to break out the bleach.

And mission accomplished! Willow gave me a lazy salute that was half-military and half–Girl Scout. These’ll train up great. I’ll just check the other porches on this street, could be the family split up. You got mostly Unawares living here?

Mostly, yeah.

Well, if you hear any weird rumors in the next week, make sure to call the Bureau of Believability. You got the number?

I nodded again. I’d better tell her.

There was a guy . . . He was trying to steal the package. I think the mimic got his leg. I grimaced.

Oh, he got bit? That explains the stain. She smirked. You’re good, then. Once the hallucinogens in the saliva kick in, he’ll be ranting and raving all sorts of nonsense. Nobody’s gonna take him seriously.

Willow slammed the back truck door on the mimics. Anything else I can do you for?

I don’t think so. Thanks again.

Great. Have a lovely day, and thanks for choosing Mimic Management.

And off the mimics went, to guard some rich mancer’s bank vault, or maybe the entrance to some underground fae club.

My phone chimed, and I cursed. Ronnie would be here in a minute, and I wasn’t ready.

I hurried inside and rolled the persimmons I’d picked onto the white tile counter, then ducked into the living room, where the poppies in my vase were shriveled. Right, I’d meant to cut fresh flowers—but that could wait.

Grey’s Anatomy was playing on the TV, and I winced when I realized which episode it was. How many characters had they killed off by this point?

I scooped up the Pogs scattered across my coffee table—my favorites, from a Star Trek: Next Generation collection—and whispered to them before sliding the colorful cardboard disks into their tube. "Be glad you guys are missing the rest of this episode."

The House was going to be in a foul mood when I returned, no doubt about it.

I snapped the tube shut, tucked it into my purse, then slung the purse and my already-stuffed book bag over my shoulder. Back in the kitchen, I heaved the jug of butterfly pea flower tea I’d made that morning out of the fridge, hugging it to my chest.

Be a dear and lock the door behind me! I stepped out the side door and tugged it shut with a foot, letting the screen door swing back into place. The deadbolt clunked. Thanks!

I headed toward the street, but Ronnie’s car wasn’t there. I frowned. Maybe I’d been quicker than I thought.

Hey Siri, I said, hands full. What time is it?

It’s 10:36 a.m.

Weird. Ronnie was never late.

I dumped my bags and the jug near the curb and went back for the shipping packages.

Maybe she got stuck on the phone, or had to clean up after a last-minute cat disaster. I gave her a couple more minutes, then sent a text message.

Maisie: You still coming?

I plopped down on the curb to wait, tugging at the grass growing in the verge, picking one blade apart. The sun warmed my skin, the slight breeze teasing loose strands of my blue hair into my face. I tucked them behind my ear.

No response.

I checked the time, but it had only been a minute. Impatient, much? I’d give her another few.

While I waited, I pushed out my senses to check on my garden.

The next crop of sunflowers was coming along, almost ready to replace the batch currently blooming. Bees buzzed amongst the poppies and sweet peas, and ants happily swarmed over the peonies.

My lettuce was going gangbusters, but the basil was unhappy. I’d have to check on it later. A squirrel was burying something at the fence line, and my Pogs were grumpy about not finishing the episode of Grey’s. The Tasha Yar Pog in particular—it was her favorite show.

I reined my senses back in. Leaving them open all the time leads to overwhelm—imagine having every person, dog, cat, bird, bug, earthworm, and plant on your radar, twenty-four seven. Then add to that the blossoming awareness of objects around me as my magic slowly brings them to life.

It’s too much.

So I keep it dialed way down, if not all the way off some days. If I need to check something out, I can push out and explore, but the rest of the time I have blessed peace and quiet.

Which unfortunately means that I don’t always have the best idea of when my belongings get smart on me—like the mason jar of raspberry jam I’d finally polished off last week.

What do you do with a half-sentient mason jar? It had been destined for the recycling bin, but now it was chilling on top of my fridge.

My phone buzzed, but it was just a promo text from some company that didn’t even make clothes in my size.

Still no response from Ronnie.

Grumbling, I pressed the call button. It rang a few times and went to voicemail.

Damn it.

I moved the jug and the packages to the stoop at the side of the house, picked up my purse and book bag, and wheeled my lemon yellow bike out of the carport. The last person who’d tried to ransack the carport had run away shrieking and babbling nonsense, so I wasn’t worried about storing stuff there.

I was curious about what the House had done to him, though.

Ronnie’s house was only a couple blocks away through established suburbia—the kind with smaller homes, all different; big pines and maples in the yards; cracked concrete; sidewalk chalk; and the occasional undisturbed dandelion.

It smelled like cut grass, the char of barbeques, and water from sprinklers chugging away over yellowing lawn.

I parked my bike in her driveway and hammered on her front door.

Ronnie! Ronnie, are you home?

I peered through the window and thought I saw a flicker of shadow. Probably her cat—I don’t think Ronnie screens unexpected visitors like I do. Besides, unless something was really wrong, she’d open the door to me.

Nothing was obviously wrong. The door was closed and locked, there weren’t bullet holes peppering her house, or blood seeping out from under the door or anything.

Maybe she’d taken her cat to the vet, or gotten called in to work.

Where did she work, again? I couldn’t remember.

I grudgingly pulled out my phone, and got her voicemail again. I put on a cheery tone.

Hey, Ronnie, this is Maisie. I’m just going to ride my bike to book club, so you don’t need to worry about picking me up. Hope everything’s okay! Maybe I’ll see you there. Bye.

I headed toward my bike, then hesitated. Rummaging in my purse, I dug out the Pog tube and snapped the lid open. I spilled the Pogs out into my hand and riffled through them until I found the one depicting Lieutenant Commander Worf. I set the Pog face up on Ronnie’s windowsill.

Keep an eye out, Worf. I’ll collect you later.

Back at my place, I dug some bungee cords and an old towel out of the carport and haphazardly strapped the drink dispenser onto my bike rack. Hopefully the towel would cushion it enough. I wedged all the packages into the basket, barely managing a successful—if precarious—Tetris arrangement.

I awkwardly slung my purse and book bag crossbody, the straps not really long enough to fit across my large torso, but it was better than having them jounce off my shoulder in the middle of traffic.

Thank the stars I didn’t have to do this every week.

It wasn’t like I needed the help—I can manage a trip to the post office on my own just fine—but it was nice to have half a car to transport my packages and stuff in, rather than a single bike basket.

Ronnie would probably get my message, be at book club before me, and apologize profusely when I showed up, telling me about how her cat choked on a mouse and they had to rush to the vet.

There was nothing to worry about. It wasn’t like we were even friends.

I sighed, mounted my bike, and pushed off. I made it a block before I spotted Steve walking his fluffy grey cat, Mr. Snuggles, down the sidewalk. Steve’s blue glasses were bright against his dark brown skin and a perfect match to Mr. Snuggles’s bow tie.

Turn around before he sees you, turn around . . .

Nope, too late.

Steve was waving me down.

Maisie, is everything okay? You don’t usually ride your bike on a Saturday. Did you and Ronnie have an argument?

I rolled to a stop and dismounted, leaning down to scritch Mr. Snuggles under the chin, his favorite spot based on the purr rumbling through him.

Steve was a fixture in this neighborhood. He didn’t really come across as gossipy, or even nosy, but he always knew everything.

If he didn’t know where Ronnie was . . .

No argument. She must’ve had a last-minute emergency, or got caught up with something. You haven’t seen her, have you?

Not in the last few hours. I thought she was at home. You checked?

I nodded. I was just over there. Nobody home.

How strange, she’s usually so punctual. He adjusted his glasses, brow furrowed, and glanced up and down the block. I’ll keep an eye out.

Thanks. I hated to sic Steve on anyone, but Ronnie wouldn’t mind.

Probably.

Steve pulled his phone out, and I took my chance to escape.

3

By the time I’d dumped my packages on the counter at the post office and biked over to Sleepy Cat Books, I was twenty minutes late for book club. Which was fine—it’s a very informal club, some people only come for ten minutes—but it’s more the principle of the thing. I hate being late.

I shoved my bike into the crowded rack out front, probably enmeshing it beyond retrieval, and reached for the bike lock—which I’d forgotten back in the carport.

I smeared my hands over my face, looking up at the sky as though the clouds might help me keep concepts like bike locks in my head consistently. I couldn’t just leave it unlocked—a bright yellow steel-frame cruiser bike would disappear off the street faster than you could flip a Pog. I pulled my purse out of the basket and peered inside.

Maybe I’d luck out with whatever had sunk to the bottom over the last couple months.

Liquid eyeliner, three lip balms, a snail shell that somehow hadn’t been crushed, cheap earbuds, pepper spray, a pretty rock I’d picked up somewhere . . .

Hmm. The earbuds had potential. I fished them out and untangled the cords as best I could.

Listen up, you guys. I need some help here. You think you can make it feel like you’re made of nasty, prickly thorns to anyone who grabs you? Except me, of course.

I squinted at the earbuds, which were less sentient than most of my belongings. Nah, there was no way. Dropping them back in my purse, I rammed my bike further into the mess and whispered a glamour over it instead.

You’re just a run-down old bike. Eyes slide right on past you and land on that nice Italian bike over there. I let myself believe it, picturing a dingy aluminum bike with a rickety chain, and sent my intent out into the universe.

Does that work?

I twitched at the deep voice, and turned.

Sylvie, another member of the Spellbound Stories Book Club, was half-out of her parked Jeep. Her wig of the week was long blonde waves, her makeup immaculate.

You tell me. Does my bike look worth stealing?

Sylvie cocked her head. The one you’re holding with the saggy chain, moth-eaten seat, and rusty handlebars?

I smiled. That’s the one. At least something was going right for me today.

Your bicycle is safe from me. She wiggled her fingers, and waited for a couple pedestrians to pass. She tilted her head toward their retreating backs. And any Unawares won’t give that thing a second glance. I’m not one for glamours myself, but that’s nice work. Spell bottles are more my thing.

I nodded and began untangling the mess of bungee cords I’d used to strap down the jug.

Sylvie slammed the Jeep’s door. Here, let me help you with that jug.

Oh, no, it’s fine, I’ve got it. I clawed the jug out from amongst the cords and hefted it against my hip, turning to maneuver out of the maze of bikes.

Which was when the strap of my book bag caught on an errant handlebar and jerked me back, the jug slipping from my fingers as my eyes widened in horror.

But Sylvie swooped in and saved the day, snatching it before it could shatter on the concrete.

You’ve got it, eh? She hugged the jug, standing from the crouch she’d caught it in.

I, uh . . . I unhooked my bag from the handlebar sheepishly. Good catch.

Sylvie laughed. You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? She handed the jug back once I was clear of the bikes. You coming to the Spinecrackers’ Read-In at Tabularasa next week?

"The read-in—Oh, no, sorry. I do love gelato, but I’ve got way too much going on already."

Oh, come on. You never show up for any fun stuff! I know you’re not shy, so what’s the deal? You secretly hate us all? Sylvie held the door open for me with a smile, the bell jangling. You turn into a frog after five o’clock?

I stepped inside, the dry musk of paper and tang of dark chocolate washing over me. Welcome to the joys of owning a small business.

That’s right, you own that little shop! Foxglove, right? I keep meaning to stop by. This week, I promise.

She followed me inside, the door closing behind us and sealing out the hum of traffic.

Sleeping Cat Books is one of those multistory bookstores where every corner you turn, there’s some new nook or door or hallway lined with books. You could get lost in here for hours before you even picked up a book, and there were definitely secret passages in the walls, if only you could find them.

Pretty sure the cats know where they are, though.

I ducked through the first doorway on the right, following Sylvie into the Rendezvous Room, where the other members of Spellbound Stories were snacking, chatting, and exchanging books. I slid the jug onto one of the refreshment tables, next to the plate of lemon slices Vera always brought.

No one seemed to get tired of seeing their cup of butterfly pea flower tea change from blue to magenta with a squeeze of lemon—even me, and I made the stuff every week.

The Rendezvous Room was deeper than wide, maybe fifteen feet by forty, and filled with book-clubbers navigating the temporary maze of folding tables. One wall was windows looking onto the street, and the rest were covered in community bulletin boards, geeky posters, recycled book art, and cat shelves and perches complete with a couple kitties surveying their domain.

Our club operated a bit differently than most. Rather than trying to get fifty people to agree on one acceptably bland book to read each month, we all just brought books we’d read and enjoyed—and were willing to lend—for everyone else to look over.

If a book grabbed your attention, you could borrow it and bring it back when you finished—in pristine condition, of course.

People with sticky fingers didn’t last long around here, nor did their membership fee slash book deposit. We Spinecrackers got burned there more than most, since we were rougher on books as a whole. A few dog-ears in an idle moment meant a surge of panic later as you tried to figure out how fussy the owner was—and how replaceable the book.

Signed copy? First edition? A gift from no-longer-with-us Grandma?

Thankfully, ninety-five percent of those here were smart enough not to bring anything irreplaceable.

That was a close one. Iris approached from the front window, cane thumping on the floor, and jerked her chin at the jug of tea. Sylvie’s got you pegged—stubborn as stone. Her dark eyes crinkled. What are you doing riding that crummy old bike, anyway? Someone hit your car? I can whip up one of my poppets for you to throw into traffic to get back at the driver, if you like.

Iris was infamous for her poppets—little twig figurines you could use to focus a spell, or just work out your revenge fantasies, in Iris’s case.

Delivery guy leave your package in the rain?

Drown a poppet in the sewer.

Someone cut you off in a construction zone?

Throw a poppet in front of a steamroller.

It was a good thing her magical skills are middling at best. I think it was more cathartic