The hate and hysteria eventually died down, but not before saddling Salem with a reputation as a haven of witches and magic. Over the centuries, that reputation became a self-fulfilling prophecy. More of us made our way here, hoping to find a tiny slice of belonging. These days, we were still less than one percent of Salem’s population, but that was significantly higher than most other places on this Earth.
I finished my walk-through of the store, making sure everything was where it belonged. Last month, I’d come down to find our window display completely redone. Jenny and Temple both denied touching it, yet somehow the stacks of books by local authors had all mysteriously been replaced with home improvement titles.
I settled behind the checkout counter, which was on the bookstore side of the shop. From here I could see the hallway and front door, as well as into the gift and souvenir side across the hall. Security cameras gave me eyes in every corner and all around the property.
I should ask around about last night’s stabbing. Maybe give Duke a call and see if anyone at the Gauntlet had heard about an assault on a harvester. An attack like this was rarely a one-and-done, and in my experience, things could escalate from one to oh-shit before you knew it.
I powered up the computer and added a note to my planner to call Duke. The To-Do List also included quarterly taxes, another round with tech support for the point-of-sale software upgrade that had wiped out all the summer book preorders from the elementary school, and a visit from Blake and the grandkids.
“Shit!” I’d gotten distracted by Jenny’s mystery and forgotten about my own family.Just like always.
I bounced from my seat and returned to the kitchen. Two cabinets swung open as I entered: one for the bowls and one for the bright-colored, sugar-coated cereal the kids always devoured. I got everything onto the table just as the front door opened.
It had unlocked on its own, of course. The house loved my grandkids.
I hurried out to greet the little demons.
Human grandparents all believed their grandchildren were the cutest/handsomest/most beautiful kids in the world. They were wrong. Thanks to my mother’s bloodline, the most beautiful kids in the world were my grandchildren.
Well, maybe not the world, but easily the eastern half of Massachusetts.
At fifteen years old, Morgan was tall and muscular without being beefy: a swimmer’s build as opposed to a bodybuilder’s. He had strong cheekbones, dark eyebrows best described as “striking,” and an easy, confident smile. His brown hair was gelled up too much for my taste, but maybe that was the trend among teenagers this week. He exuded easy confidence and just a pinch of danger. It was no wonder half the girls and more than a few boys in his school had a crush on him.
Morgan’s younger sister Ava was equally attractive, with baby-smooth skin and piercing hazel eyes and a smile that could melt kids and adults with equal ease. Not that I’d seen her smile in months. She wore a baggy T-shirt and a dingy hoodie. She’d either gotten a haircut or cut it herself since last weekend, turning it into a short, spiky, bleached mess that looked like it should house a pair of bluebirds and their eggs.
She tried to squeeze past me into the kitchen, but I spread my arms to block the hall. “You know the rules.”
She rolled her eyes, then pulled out one of her earbuds and donned a ridiculously fake smile. “Good morning, Grandma Thorne. It’s very nice to see you. How are you today?”
The sarcasm in her recitation was sharp enough to cut bone. I ignored it. “Much better now, thank you.”
I would never force them to hug me, no matter how much it stung when they didn’t, but when my grandchildren were in this house, basic manners were a must.
Her obligation fulfilled, Ava headed in for breakfast, tapping on her phone as she went.
Morgan shrugged and hugged me. “She’s gotten worse all year. It drives Dad crazy. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”
Of course he didn’t. Ava was his sister. He probably hadn’t noticed the way her body was changing or how hard she worked to hide it. I recalled my own childhood and the attention I’d drawn, both wanted and unwanted. “You weren’t exactly a fountain of fun and joy when you were her age. Go easy on her.”
I shooed him in after his sister, then walked onto the porch to greet my son. He rarely came inside, and if I wasn’t quick, he’d disappear without ever saying a word.
I’d been married four times, but only once had I fallen hard enough to conceive a child. The experience had taught me two things: I was human enough to get stretch marks, and I wasnotcut out to be a mother.
Blake Davis didn’t look much like his father. He was tall and lean and strong and youthful. I’d wager he still got carded, despite being thirty-five. He had a dark beard in desperate need of a trim, but what would look sloppy on another man just made him appear wild and rugged.
“I take it you haven’t told Ava yet,” I said, hurdling the niceties like it was an Olympic event.
He glanced past me to make sure the kids weren’t close enough to hear. “I haven’t, and neither will you.”
“She’s struggling,” I said. “She needs to understand what she is.”
“She’s too young. I didn’t tell Morgan until he was thirteen.”
“Ava isn’t Morgan.” My son was smart, so why couldn’t he see that being eleven years old with succubus blood was a very different experience when you were a girl? “She has the right to know why people react the way they do.”
“She has the right to enjoy being a normal kid for a while.”
“She’s not—” I stopped myself. It was one of many familiar arguments, and we both knew the script by heart. “All right. She’s your daughter. I’m not trying to cause problems.”
