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SUNDAY MORNING, BROOMZILLA dropped me off at the Hernández house. Shifters could be a little skittish around her, but to keep her from sulking, I’d given her free reign to go on a solo flight. She wouldn’t stray far. As pissy as she could be, my gran’s magical blessing bound the broom to me the same way a familiar was beholden to their witch.
I’d never had a familiar. Of course, who really needed a familiar for the parlor trick, homemaker magic I did? A bespelled broom, on the other hand, was perfectly suited for my line of work. I was even betting that I could get away with toting her around somewhere other than Assjacket, now that I’d discovered what I’d been brought here to do. I could finish out my apartment lease and go sell real estate anywhere I wanted.
The thought filled me with just as much dread as hope, so I pushed it aside, vowing to better assess the situation at a later time. Today was going to require every bit of my focus and charisma.
I’d gone with cropped dress pants and a lacey, yellow top for the open house. My dark curls flowed freely, and I skipped my usual bold red lipstick in favor of a peachy hue. It was a professional look, but also cute enough to wow Dylan for our lunch date.
We hadn’t parted on the best terms, but I guessed the saying was true. Absence made the heart grow fonder. Also, I’d spent the previous evening online, watching his graduation slideshow that included an adorable collage of elementary school pictures. Eight-year-old Dylan had freckles and an untamable cowlick. I supposed that was why he let the top grow out longer now.
The open house was set to begin at nine and run until eleven. It was a shorter time slot than I would have preferred, but with all the variables we were aware of and could control, it was our best option. We still had half an hour until showtime, but there were already a few curious critters watching from an adjacent lawn. Sneaky Shifters.
I waved at them and then pressed the toe of my high heel over the bar that ran between the metal stakes of the open house sign, securing it in the ground before making my way to the porch. The border of yellow mums along the sidewalk had been here Friday morning when I’d taken pictures for the brochure, but the bucket planters of white daisies were new.
Dylan had also left the front door open like I’d asked, giving the house an inviting aura and allowing in some fresh air. As I climbed the front steps, the smell of coffee and something warm and sugary greeted me.
Inside, all the sheets that had been draped over the furniture were gone. The rolltop desk shined with a fresh coat of polish, and a plate of cookies had been left on a coffee table in front of a vintage chaise lounge.
Perfect. This was an ideal setup. As long as there were no hiccups, I’d have this place under contract by before lunch.
“Good morning.”
I turned to find Dylan standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen. He held a coffee mug in one hand and a dishtowel in the other. A white apron was tied around his waist. He blushed when I hitched an eyebrow at the ruffles along the bottom hem.
“This was all I could find. It belonged to Mama Lois,” he explained as he retreated into the kitchen.
“For a minute there, I feared I was barking up the wrong belfry,” I said under my breath.
If Dylan heard, he ignored the comment. “I washed up a dozen mugs, and there’s a fresh pot ready to go.”
“The cookies were a nice touch, too.”
“Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “They’re, uh, Mama Gretta’s recipe. She called them pawpaw-doodles. I have another batch in the oven.”
“And he bakes. Careful, you’ll have the ladies asking if you come with the house.” I gave him a flirty grin. The promising condition of the home had amped up my confidence, and we did have a lunch date. Now seemed like a good time to test the waters.
Dylan’s smile faltered, and his gaze dropped away from mine. “Margo, I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me—for my family. I want you to know that—”
“Hello?” a timid voice called from the front room. My breath sucked in sharply.
“Our first prospect,” I whispered excitedly and gave Dylan’s arm a squeeze. Then I hurried from the kitchen. It was as much to greet the newcomer as to flee the gentle letdown.
I was no stranger to the it’s not you, it’s me speech. When it came to the few warlocks I’d casually dated in my youth, the sentiment was clearly due to my magical deficiency. With Dylan, I could actually believe he was trying to protect me from the pain of his looming death. But that didn’t make the rejection sting any less.
I tried to swallow the lump in my throat and pasted on a friendly smile as I crossed the sitting room and met the nice couple waiting on the front porch. I recognized them as racoon Shifters that Zelda had introduced me to at the diner a few months back. They were expecting their first litter.
“Come in, come in!” I called in a bubbly sing-song. “Would you like some coffee or a cookie? They’re fresh out of the oven, made with fruit from the orchard in the backyard.”
“There’s an orchard?” The wife’s nose twitched as she sniffed the air and zeroed in on the cookies. Her swollen belly gurgled, but her husband beat her to the coffee table, snatching up the plate first. His own nose twitched nervously over the sweets.
“Are these organic?” he asked, picking one up for closer inspection. “Made with cage-free eggs? Raw cane sugar?”
“Gimme, gimme,” his wife whined, reached over his shoulder for the plate he held out of her reach.
“Ummm...” My smile widened. “How about you take a peek at the kitchen and ask Mr. Hernández for the recipe?”
They both froze at the suggestion, their faces paling with horror.
“I knew it!” the husband shrieked. He discarded the plate of cookies on the coffee table as if they were covered in spiders. “I told you there were ghosts in this house.”
“And in the kitchen?” his wife pouted. “How am I supposed to cook in a haunted kitchen?”
“Oh, no no no,” I said, waving my hands. “Dylan Hernández is very much alive. He’s the one selling the house.”
“So...no ghosts in the kitchen?” the husband asked.
“No ghosts in the kitchen,” I answered evenly, hoping they wouldn’t ask about the rest of the house. I couldn’t bring myself to outright lie, but carefully dancing around the negatives and highlighting the positives was part of the job.
I handed the wife a brochure before sending them off into the kitchen and going to greet the next potential buyer waiting at the door—a deer Shifter named Deedee.
“Welcome,” I said, waving my arm to invite her inside.
“Thank you. So hospitable,” Deedee said, wiping a finger to the side of her mouth where a yellow flower petal clung.
“Did you...eat the mums out front?” I gaped at the damning evidence, and her lips curled downward in a shameful pout.
“The ad mentioned refreshments,” she said, doe eyes watering. I pointed at the plate of cookies, unable to summon a cordial response.
“Oh, yes,” Deedee said, nibbling on one of the pawpaw-doodles. “Mmm. These are almost as delightful as the mums.”
“Would you like to see the master suite?” I asked, handing her a brochure. I refrained from cattily offering her a drink from the en-suite toilet. Working with Shifter clients was definitely an ongoing test of my patience.
Deedee dusted the crumbs from her lips and smiled. “That would be lovely.” She craned her neck, taking in the whole of the front room as we crossed it. “So light and airy,” she commented, nodding to the white curtains and luminous chandeliers.
The master suite was in the far left corner, just beyond the parlor nook. A small opening led to a powder room under the top landing of the staircase, but right beside it stood a taller door that led into the bedroom that Papa Nando and Mama Ellie had shared during their star-crossed marriage.
I’d hung new curtains over the window in this room, too, but I tied them off so the colorful view of the backyard wouldn’t go unnoticed. The bright leaves of the pawpaw trees had finished their transition to full yellow, pairing nicely with the fresh, green paint in the room.
Deedee sighed and clasped her hands together under her chin. “This is wonderful! And those trees look delicious,” she added, nodding her head enthusiastically.
Just then, the bulbs in the chandelier over the bed flickered. The window panes rattled, and the curtains fluttered in an invisible breeze, coming untied.
“Staaay awaaay from myyy trees,” a deep voice with a Cuban accent demanded.
Deedee clung to my arm, and her fingers dug into my skin as they began to fuse into hooves. I tried to think of something reassuring to tell her, but I was once again at a loss for words.
Dylan hadn’t mentioned anything about the master suite. If he’d conveniently left out another detail, I was going to hex his ass myself—even if the worst I could do was curse him with dust bunnies.
“Would you like to see the bathroom?” I asked with forced cheer, wondering if I could somehow convince Deedee that I hadn’t heard the eerie warning.
“I think I already went in my pants,” she squeaked. Then she turned and sprinted from the room, taking great, bounding leaps. I half expected to see a white tail sprout from her rear end.
“Splendid,” I grumbled, grabbing my hips with both hands.
The disembodied voice chuckled at my ill luck, and my temper flared to life. I spun around and pointed a finger in the air.
“You better hope this place sells, bucko!” I shouted. “If it doesn’t, the bank is going to flatten it—including your precious trees!”
“Margo?”
“What?” I snapped as I spun around, only to find Dylan and the racoon Shifter couple waiting in the doorway. The startled looks on their faces told me they’d heard all they needed to.
“We’ll just be on our way then,” the husband said, dragging his wife away by the hand. Dylan watched them go with a scowl. He folded his arms before turning to face me.
“What was that all about?” he asked accusingly.
I stabbed my finger in the air again. “Did you know about this room?”
“What about it?”
“One of your great-great-whatevers just threatened a potential buyer.”
“No, they’d never—”
“She commented on the trees, and he told her to staaay awaaay from them.” I wiggled my fingers in a mocking gesture and rolled my eyes. “Then he messed up my damn curtains,” I added as I stormed across the room to draw them back again.
The picturesque view was gone, as the window panes were now covered with pulpy, mashed fruit. I huffed out an exasperated sigh and glared at Dylan.
“Well, this was Papa Nando’s room,” he said sheepishly. “I suppose if he was going to do any regular haunting, it would be here.”
“Let’s not forget the basement,” I reminded him. “What other rooms does he like to frequent?”
“Well...” Dylan scratched the back of his head. “As a kid, I encountered him all over the house.”
I groaned and dragged my hands down my face. “We just needed him to chillax for two hours. Does he not understand what’s at stake?”
“I tried to tell him,” Dylan said with a hopeless shrug. “He’s a stubborn old man.” The bedroom door slammed shut behind Dylan, smacking his ass and rattling the window panes again. “Hey!” he howled, rubbing his backside.
This would not do. There had to be an easier way to get Papa Nando on board.
“The threat of having the house and pawpaw trees leveled doesn’t seem to matter to him,” I said, tapping the toe of one shoe on the hardwood. “What do you supposed he does care about? What do we have to bargain with?”
The disembodied voice returned, but he spoke in Spanish this time, just for Dylan’s ears. The only words I recognized were mango and papaya. From the flush that filled Dylan’s cheeks, I had a feeling that Papa Nando wasn’t talking about fruit cocktail.
“Papa,” Dylan hissed.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know.” Dylan opened the bedroom door and waved his arm, urging me back into the front room. He followed, closing the door behind him. I hoped Papa Nando had stayed behind, but knowing that his spirit had free reign of the house made me doubtful.
“What are we supposed to do now?” I threw my hands in the air and glanced out at the empty porch before turning back to Dylan. This open house was going downhill fast.
Dylan gave me a pained smile. “Keep trying?”
“Obviously.” I folded my arms. “I mean about the curmudgeon ghost and the skittish Shifters.”
“He has to sleep some time,” Dylan said, glancing away from me to straighten the brochures on the dining room table. “There’s a perfect buyer out there—someone even Papa Nando will approve of. I just know it.”
“Someone who will bring him mangoes and papayas?”
Dylan’s face flushed again and he cleared his throat. “Uh... sure. Yeah. I bet he’d like that.”
I glanced down at my watch. “Well, I hope they turn up before Papa Diego’s mid-day stroll. I’d rather not hang around for that show.”
“Are we still on for lunch?” Dylan asked, running a hand through his luscious hair.
The date seemed more platonic now, but he was easy on the eyes. And if I was going to be shutdown in the romantic department, I supposed dying was as good an excuse as any.
“Sure,” I finally answered. “As long as you don’t plan on wearing that.”
“Deal.” Dylan untied the frilly apron and pulled it over his head. With as quickly as he’d complied, I considered asking him to remove his shirt next. But that would have been unprofessional.
I’d at least wait until the open house was over.
