CHAPTER 1
Don’t screw this up, Jensen.
You know how you have that little voice in your head that talks you through challenges, or encourages you, or reminds you of who you are? That little voice that says, “You can do it!” or, “You’ve got this!” or, “You’ll get it next time!”
Lately, I’m pretty sure my little internal cheerleader has been replaced by my boss’s voice. Every time I could use a pep talk, I instead get Cressida Caine, Deputy Director of the Falls Creek branch of the MBI—that’s the Magical Bureau of Investigation—pointing out just how many times I’ve managed to mess up even the easiest assignment.
Get yourself together for once, Jensen.
You’re on thin ice these days, Jensen.
Who replaced all the printer toner with magenta ink?
Do I wish the voice in my head was a little less “Why can’t you get anything right?” and a little more “You can handle this!” Of course. But baseless praise isn’t helpful, and it seems like what I really need at the moment is an internal voice that tells it like it is.
Or at least that’s my explanation for why everything that runs through my head is in Cressida’s chilly voice.
Luckily, this isn’t an assignment I can really mess up. All I have to do today is spend a little bit of time in the most charming bakery I’ve ever seen, talking with a sweet little old lady who looks like Mrs. Claus and smells like gingerbread.
And who, if the MBI is correct, is guilty of helping hundreds of women kill their husbands and fathers and bosses.
She’s a witchy serial killer, a modern-day Giulia Tofana, peddling magical poisons that autopsies can’t detect while also making award-winning flan.
Honestly, I had no idea they gave awards for the best flan, but it’s right there in swirly white-and-pink script on the bakery’s big display window: “Voted Falls Creek’s Best Flan.”
It looks like Falls Creek’s second-best flan maker is about to be in luck. Once we get the evidence we need and get Granny Annie Baker off the street, they can seize the flan crown.
I just need to get a look at the illegal goods, and then we can put the old lady behind bars where she belongs.
“What can I help you with this morning?” the old lady in question asks from behind a wide counter painted a frothy shade of pink I’ve never associated with serial killers before.
“Oh, I’m just looking,” I say. That’s what the person I’m pretending to be would say, I imagine. Emily Brooks, mild-mannered accountant for a local furniture company. She’s still single at 41, something she never could have imagined for herself, but she does her best to enjoy her life. She recently got into photography, and she’s even considering joining a climbing gym near her apartment, although she worries she’ll just end paying the monthly fee and never?—
Sweet Baba Yaga’s tits, Jensen. Nobody cares. Just tell the old crone you want to off somebody and she’ll sell you the goods.
The point is, Emily is a little nervous. She’s a rule follower, and she’s never done anything like this before. So she’s not justgoing to walk in and ask for whatever Granny Annie’s version of Aqua Tofana is. She’s going to pretend to peruse the baked goods packed into the display case before her.
It’s obvious Granny Annie knows her way around a kitchen—and not just to whip up some death juice. The case is packed with drool-worthy creations. There are cookies the size of a baby’s head, packed with chocolate and peanut butter chips. A pie with a perfect lattice top revealing a luscious, ruby-red cherry filling. Macarons in all the colors of a pastel rainbow. A tiered cake dripping with piped vines and flowers and butterflies. And, of course, on the top shelf, a glistening flan soaked in caramel.
I’m not normally a flan fan—to be honest, I can’t remember if I’ve ever even tried it—but I’m pretty sure I would enjoy Granny Annie’s flan. My mouth waters, and I remember with a pang that I haven’t eaten yet this morning.
Because would poor, nervous Emily eat before walking into a death bakery to acquire an evil potion from a witch? No, of course not. So I figured I should skip breakfast too.
Jensen, for the love of newts and batwings?—
(It’s called method acting, Cressida, I tell my internal voice.Look it up.)
Granny Annie watches me, her thin lips turned up in a smile, her cheeks rosy from exertion, or the heat, or just the joy of making good money off murder. She looks every bit the charming little old lady she’s supposed to be.
But even though her blue eyes sparkle behind gold-rimmed spectacles, there’s something ever so slightly off about them. Just a hint of cunning, a cool slipperiness that puts me in mind of a snake.
A snake that has me fixed in her sights.
I blink and look away, one hand unconsciously brushing the MBI badge tucked safely beneath my shirt as I pretend to be interested in a row of cookies-and-cream cupcakes.
I’m the real predator here. She should be scared of me.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
