“Did you see or hear anything strange around here last night?” he asked.
My attention sharpened. “I can honestly say I did not.”
He grunted and approached the counter. His hands were strong, with calluses on the first two knuckles. He stood with his back toward the wall, checking the doorway and the windows every fifteen seconds or so. “You don’t sound local. Where are you from?”
“I grew up in Paris.” I opened camera seven’s feed on my computer screen. Temple had etched a spell onto the fisheye lens in the center of the ceiling. As a normal security camera, it was all but useless, feeding a constant stream of static...unless someone or something magical entered its field of view.
Amidst the gray snow were two humanoid shapes: me sitting behind the checkout counter, and Morgan, who’d gotten up to set his shelf cards around the shop. Morgan’s image was fainter than mine, but we both had the purple tinge that indicated demonic magic.
Our visitor was invisible to camera seven: fully human, with no illusions or charms masking his appearance.
He reached for one of the books on our counter display. This time, he studied the cover before picking it up. “Everyday Witchcraft? Do you believe in this nonsense?”
“I believe we sell more of ‘that nonsense’ than any other genre.”
As he returned the book to its stack, the static from the camera shifted for a moment. I paused the feed and clicked back and forth between frames until I saw it: a thin shadow on his left hip, roughly the size of a large knife. His trench coat hid it from normal sight. “Morgan, would you please go downstairs and check on your sister?”
I tried to make it casual, but Morgan was perceptive. He sized up our guest, squared his shoulders, and stepped toward me in full teen bravado mode. “Is there a problem, Grandma?”
“It’s been quiet down there for at least three minutes,” I said, deliberately misunderstanding the question. “So, in all likelihood, yes.”
“I meant—”
“Now, Morgan.”
He frowned but did as I’d asked, stopping only to set the last of his shelf cards with the used graphic novels.
Our knife-toting guest watched him go. Once I heard Morgan’s creaking footsteps descend into the basement, I folded my arms and asked, “Who are you?”
I didn’t know with one hundred percent certainty that this was the dumbass who’d attacked Jenny’s harvester last night. But I was at ninety-seven percent and climbing. He’d probably tracked his prey from the stink and any blood it had lost on the way here.
And now he’d waltzed right into my shop, my home, with no clue what he was facing. Guys like this tended to be dumber than a dozen dicks, strutting around with an inflated sense of their own superiority, certain they were smart enough to do whatever they wanted without getting caught.
“You first.” His nostrils flared. “Who are you?Whatare you?”
I’d studied my own appearance over the years enough to know I looked perfectly human, albeit more attractive than most. That wasn’t vanity, just simple fact. Like most succubi, I was tall with smooth skin and ample curves. My hair had maintained its fiery red and gentle waves with only the occasional strands of silver. The only visible clue to my nature was that I appeared at least fifteen years younger than my sixty years.
“My name is Annette. I’m one of the owners.” I stood and flexed my hands. My fingertips were stiff with the need to extend my claws, but I kept them retracted for now. “Your turn. Start with a name.”
“Ronnie.”
“From your accent, you’re not from Massachusetts. You sound southern to me. Alabama?”
His face wrinkled slightly. He’d come in here expecting to be the one asking questions, and now he was off-balance. “We—I traveled a lot.”
“And where did you pick up that magic knife?”
Ronnie’s poker face sucked. His left hand shot to his hip like he was reassuring himself I hadn’t stolen his weapon from behind the counter.
“Draw that in here and things will go very badly for you.” I spoke calmly and matter-of-factly, and was rewarded by the sight of his throat moving as he swallowed hard. I hardened my expression. “Tell me why you attacked that harvester.”
Before he could answer, Morgan shouted from the basement. “Grandma, you’d better come down here. It’s an emergency.”
For a second, panic clenched my chest as I imagined Ava injured or worse. Had she fallen? The house did its best to protect its people, but it wasn’t infallible. She could have slipped and hit her head or—
“It’s not my fault,” Ava yelled.
In those seconds when I was distracted, Ronnie backed toward the door, never taking his eyes off me.
