I glanced at my feet.Uncle?
A rumble of laughter echoed, accompanied by the smell of ashes.
I cracked my knuckles. Fine, I guess I was on my own.
Cora Roberts—Supernatural Orgy Breakup Officer. Benefits Package: none.
CHAPTER FIVE
Today’s specials: botched spells, bad Latin, and boundaries
Ihad three browser tabs open and a spreadsheet I’d broken four times with my Hulk hands. Thank the Lord for the undo button. I glared at the remaining half-cookie sitting alone at the bottom of the tin like it had failed some loyalty test. I neededmore than half of one to make it through this month’s episode ofMake Summer Grove Profitable, Please and Thank You.
I flicked from my clinic ledger to the bank statements and back to the color-coded calendar that pretended it could hold back the tide of supernatural nonsense by sheer pastel willpower. It could not. Line after depressing line itemized my life: gauze packs, silver nitrate sticks, three new sets of scrubs because Maggie accidentally washed my old ones with her all-natural tie-dyed dungarees, a replacement necropsy scalpel, and a mysterious charge from the plumber labeled “scream pipe.” He swore there was no such thing. I did not believe him, but the upstairs toilet in room two no longer howled at midnight, so we had settled on a detente.
I tipped the last half-cookie into my mouth and crunched my way through a brutal truth: if I wanted to continue keeping an entire town’s worth of supernatural detritus upright and mostly alive, I needed money.
I grabbed a pen and my delightful witch hat-shaped sticky notes and scribbled aggressively.
Apply for grants?
Do half-angels get benefits? Dental?
Wingspan allowance?
War-related stress pay?
Someone, somewhere, owed me back pay and a voucher for a weekend getaway without dead people. Preferably on a remote tropical island where nobody could demand I listen to their excuses. My heart stuttered at the thought of the video Sebastian took. I shook my head. Did I want to see it? No… yes? He’s likely deleted it already, so I’m sure the choice is gone. Indigo stayed blessedly silent while I wrestled with the masochism of curiosity. I tipped my head back and massaged my temples, staring at the plain white ceiling like it might cough up answers… or at least a refund.
A cheerful knock sounded on my office door.
“Are you ready for your first, boss?” Maggie chirped, already halfway inside, braid bouncing as if it existed in a friendlier gravity.
I sat up and blinked. “My first what?”
“Appointment.” She marched to the blank patch of wall on my right and tapped a new, very large, wipeable weekly calendar I’d somehow failed to notice.
I squinted at the words. Tuesday Clinic, with neat blocks of names in Maggie’s loopy handwriting. “Who authorized organization?”
“You mumbled something about budgets a few days ago before you fell asleep in the armchair with a pen on your face,” she said. “So I did it. You’re welcome.”
I vaguely recalled that, but since then, we’d had a ghost invasion, a visit with an unhelpful god, and a betrayal that cut deep enough to graze bone. Still, of all the anomalies, my bobcat shifter teen organizing more than a speed-dating night or a kitchen disaster was up there.
“Probably a good thing,” I muttered, glancing at the bank total. “Proceed.”
“Excellent.” She clapped and jumped up and down. That was more like Maggie. “I’ll just prep the area.”
I scowled. “We aren’t operating, Maggie.”
She pulled the door open, and the White Furry Menace slunk inside. Maggie frowned and waggled her finger at the feline. “Play nice. No eating the customers.”
“Patients,” I corrected. Then the words sank in. Why would anyone be in danger of becoming Bella’s dinner?
Maggie dragged in a tiny bright pink inflatable paddling pool with an arching flamingo complete with cartoon eyes and a bobbing beak and dropped it beside my desk. I folded my arms and leaned back in my chair when she pulled a bucket into theroom next. She dumped the water into it, along with a Barbie doll wearing a swimsuit. Wonderful. I was all set up for kiddie care.
I opened my mouth, but she raised a finger, making the words die on my tongue. She stuffed her hands inside the pockets of her denim flared jeans and pulled out a handful of green leaves. The distinct scent of mint floated in the air as she sprinkled the water with the herb. She stepped back, hands on hips, assessing the tableau like it was an installation at the Louvre. Then she gave me two thumbs up and skipped out.
I stared at the flamingo, then at my colorful set of spreadsheets, then back at the flamingo. “Color me curious,” I told the universe. The universe, which had a sense of humor and poor time management, obliged immediately.
