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They’re not witch hunters.

First of all, witch hunters always work in pairs. This is a trio, and it takes one glance at them to recognize what they are: fellow magic users.

The one in front is a dead ringer for Michelle Pfeiffer, with her blonde hair and cat-like grin. Only instead of playing a witch like Michelle did in her latest film, the magic pouring off of the blonde marks her as a member of a real coven. To her left, there’s another witch around my age. She’s a redhead with a pinched look as she holds out her hands, directing them my way.

She’s the one keeping me immobile, I realize.

Then there’s the third witch. She’s a decade or so older than her coven mates. Her dark hair is slicked back in a low bun, and she’s still wearing the same blouse and skirt she had on when I saw her standing behind the library counter at the Spellbrook Library earlier this morning.

Uh-oh.

I’m in trouble.

“Alice?” The blonde glances at the witch librarian. “Is this him?”

She bobs her head. “That’s right, Susan.”

The blonde—Susan—lifts her finger. She twirls it in the air, dabbing it against the tip of her tongue. Her nose wrinkles. “Yes. It’s the same flavor of magic left behind in the aisles.”

My heart stops; figuratively, not literally, though I’m not sure that these witches aren’t capable of such a spell. Tasting the air… what kind of witch magic is this?

A second later, I think about what Susan said. Left in the aisles… damn it. One spell. One tiny little incantation. I was just looking for the grimoire and I guess I left enough behind for them to track me down all the way here.

Susan waves her hand at the redhead. “Mary Ellen? Keep him in place, but allow him to speak.”

Mary Ellen nods. I didn’t even realize that I couldn’t speak until she shifts her hold on her spell and, suddenly, I’m sputtering.

Susan steps in front of me. “Who are you?” Her eyes flash, going from dark to white to absolute pitch black, like someone has filled her entire eye socket with ink.

My stomach falls. That answered my question. What kind of magic is this?

Black magic.

Wicked witch magic.

Curse magic.

I clamp down my teeth. Doesn’t matter. The words are ripped out of me. “Vincent Morrow. Warlock.”

Mary Ellen makes a sound of disgust.

Yeah, well, being frozen in place by a witch is no picnic for me, either, sweetheart.

Susan nods, like she expected that answer. Slowly, she glides away from me, the hem of her long, purple dress trailing across the tile as she approaches the kitchen table. I figured she would go right for the spell.

I’m wrong.

“Catnip?” She picks up the bag of catnip from the table, hoisting it high so we can all see it. “You have a familiar, warlock? Where is the cat?”

I’m frozen with my back against my kitchen wall, at the mercy of these witches, and I still manage a sneer. “Me? A familiar? As if! Do I look like a witch to you?”

I sneered. She sniffs. “No. You look like a thief.”

Uh-oh.

“My book,” bleats the librarian. “He ripped a page out of one of my books.” She jabs a finger at the table, enough sparks flying from the tip, I’m momentarily concerned she might start a fire. “It’s right there.”

Susan lowers the catnip, grabbing the page instead. Her black eyes rove over the page. She sucks in a breath. “So that’s why you needed the catnip,” she muses. Her gaze flickers over to the red flame. “But you haven’t completed the spell yet. Good. Alice? Would you like to do the honors?”