We pulled up outside what could only be described as a ruin. John Smith’s house was in a state of disrepair, to put it mildly. A strong gust of wind could blow the whole thing over any second.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I said under my breath, gazing at the atrocity from the safety of Sheriff Jacob Calder’s truck.
He kept the engine idling, rested one arm on top of the steering wheel, and joined me in studying my new home. “Needs a little work.”
“You don’t say.” The sarcasm was back.
“I could drop you at Joan Jackson’s B&B if you’d prefer,” he offered. “It’s closer to town. And cleaner.”
While his offer was tempting, I had strict orders. Harding needed to know where I was, which was here, number one Berryman Street, Gravestone. Staying at paid accommodations led to complications like money trails and official records. I’d had to hand over my SIA-issued phone and badge and grudgingly accept the burner phone Harding handed me. His last words to me had been, “I don’t care how awful it is. I don’t care if you hate it. Suck it up. You’re staying at John Smith’s house on the pretense he is your great uncle. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
I turned to the sheriff and did my best to smile. My face practically cracked. Had it been that long since I’d smiled? The muscles felt odd, frozen, as if they didn’t know what to do with this strange expression I was inflicting upon them. “I’ll be fine here.”
Opening the door, I slid out of the truck, taking a moment to get my balance. The sheriff shut off the engine and walked to the back of his truck, hauling my suitcase out and bringing it around to where I stood at the front gate. Or rather, where the front gate would be if it were standing. I spotted a few slats of wood rotting in the weeds to my right and assumed once upon a time they’d stood sentinel at the entry of the property.
“John’s place backs up to the mangroves,” the sheriff said. “Just in case you hear any unfamiliar sounds.”
I cocked my head and studied him. “Anything I should be worried about?” I knew nothing about mangroves or what types of critters lived in them.
“Not you. But you might want to keep your friend inside. He’d make a tasty snack for some of the wildlife.”
Flynn's claws dug into my skin. Yeah, I’d be concerned too if, instead of the hunter, I was the prey. I felt a trickle of sweat roll down the side of my face and wiped it away. “Thanks for the lift,” I said, taking the suitcase from him. “Guess I should let you get back to patrolling for maniacs.”
He inclined his head. “Welcome to Gravestone.”
I waited until he’d climbed back into his truck and driven away before proceeding down the cracked concrete path, admiring the tenacity of the weeds that had forced themselves up through the cracks and were thriving in their barren landscape. Two steps led to a buckled porch, and the wooden slats groaned in protest as I walked across them. I stood for a moment, studying them. “You know, Flynn, we could probably do something with this. I’ve got time on my hands. We could turn this into a fixer-upper project. How are you with a hammer?”
Flynn rubbed his face against my jaw, then licked me, making me flinch. “What did I say about licking me? Only when you’re alerting me to something. I don’t care if you like the taste of my sweat. It’s just gross, so cut it out.” I lifted him off my shoulder and cradled him in my hand while I wrestled with the front door. Harding had handed me an envelope along with the burner phone. In it had been my new identity and the keys to this place. Tess Hunter, Twitch to her friends, was gone. In her place, Holly Day, bookstore clerk. Harding had thought my new name was hilarious, and I knew why he’d left it until the last minute to tell me. So that I couldn’t do anything about it.
“Remember, Twitch,” he’d said somberly, hands on my shoulders and peering into my face. I’d never seen him so earnest. “This is life and death. You stumbled onto something big, and until we get to the bottom of it, you’re not safe. I need you to stay in Gravestone. Become Holly. Do not reveal to anyone, under any circumstances, that you are Twitch the Witch.”
His voice echoed in my head as if he was standing right next to me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I swiveled, eyes scanning the weed-filled front garden and beyond. Nothing. No one was about. No one was watching. Just the hum of bees and the distant call of birds in the trees. Yet I had the eerie sensation I was not alone.
There were two houses on Berryman Street. John Smith’s was one of them, which actually made it perfect. Only one neighbor to worry about. Were they watching me now? Can’t say I’d blame them. If our roles were reversed, that’s exactly what I’d do—have my nose pressed against the glass checking out the new neighbor.
“Come on, Flynn, let’s get inside. I think the heat is getting to me.” Propping the screen door open with my foot, I inserted the key into the weathered wooden door, and with a bit of brute force, the key turned in the lock. Putting my shoulder to the door, I pushed hard, then stumbled inside when it gave way beneath my weight. Dust motes danced in the air as our entrance stirred the only breeze the house had seen in weeks. Setting Flynn on the floor, I dragged my suitcase inside and closed the screen door, leaving the wooden door open to try to air the place out. I felt like I’d walked into a dusty oven, the heat inside the closed-up house as unrelenting as the heat outside.
The living room consisted of a worn, stained armchair, a torn-up sofa, a coffee table laden with old newspapers and empty beer cans, an overflowing ashtray, and the oldest television I’d ever seen. A thick layer of dust coated everything, making me sneeze. “What have you gotten me into, Harding?” It was a rhetorical question. As far as hiding places went, I couldn’t fault him. Who would think to look for me here, a tiny coastal town in South Texas that barely registered on the map, in a run-down cottage that would probably only sell for land value and very little else?
This was not your standard SIA safe house. Not by a long shot. But these weren’t your average circumstances either. Harding had hidden me here off the books. He feared there was a mole in the SIA. Otherwise, how had they known where to find me? The safe house I’d initially been placed in should have been that. Safe. Yet they’d found me and had almost succeeded in killing me. And that had Harding rattled. Since I had enough self-preservation not to want to be dead, I’d deemed it more than appropriate to follow Harding’s instructions.
“No point dwelling on it, eh, Flynn? It is what it is, and I may as well just get on with it. First things first, let's clean up a bit. And for the love of God, get off that armchair! I don’t know what that stain is, but I’m thinking maybe old John Smith died in that chair.”
Flynn twitched his whiskers and ignored me. Of course, he’d love the smell of decomposition. He was a rat. Didn’t matter that he used to be human. Well, not human exactly, a shifter. But now that he was a rat, he’d taken on all rat characteristics, which was kinda unnerving.
The hours ticked by surprisingly fast. After throwing open the doors and windows, I’d hauled my suitcase upstairs, vetoing the main bedroom for the much smaller second bedroom at the back of the house. No way was I sleeping on the double bed currently occupying John’s room. I didn’t know what happened to the old man but to say he wasn’t big on hygiene was an understatement. I was going to need cleaning supplies, stat.
“Yoohoo! Anybody home?” The banging on the front door was insistent, and I suspected whoever the voice belonged to knew I was here and had no intention of leaving until I answered their summons. Dropping the garbage bag I’d been dragging around the living room, I appeared in the doorway.
“Yes?” I knew I looked a mess. I could feel it in my very bones. Drenched in sweat, covered in dust, no doubt red in the face, I wasn’t in the mood for visitors.
“Oh, my dear, you do have a job on your hands, don’t you?” The elderly woman with bronzed skin, deep wrinkles, and stark white hair smiled, red lipstick smeared across her teeth. I automatically rubbed my fingers across my teeth.
“What’s that?” she asked. “Oh!” After dealing with the lipstick mishap, she opened the screen door and heaved a cooler bag toward me. “I brought you this. A welcoming gift.”
“Thank you. That wasn’t necessary.” I took the bag from her, staggering under the weight.
“Nonsense. You’re new to town. It’s the neighborly thing to do.”
“Oh, so you live next door?” I jerked my thumb toward the house next to mine.
“What? Oh, no. I live on the Esplanade. Oh my goodness, silly me, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Doris Shutt.” She held out her hand.
Placing the cooler at my feet, I shook her hand, pondering her name. Doris Shutt. As in… the door is shut?
“Hi, Doris. I’m Holly.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her my surname. The humiliation was still raw.
“Pleased to meet you, Holly. I hear you’re a relative of John’s? We didn’t think he had any family. He never spoke of them.”
“He was my mother’s uncle—they were estranged. It took the lawyers a while to track me down.” The lie rolled off my tongue with ease, and Doris nodded in understanding.
“Ahhh, I see. Well, John did tend to keep to himself, so that doesn’t surprise me. Mind if I come in?” A bit late for that, considering she was already standing in my living room. She tsk’d, hands-on-hips as she surveyed the state of things. “This is quite the job.”
I couldn’t contain the sigh that fell out of my mouth. “I admit it wasn’t quite what I was expecting. The lawyers said Uncle John had property. I’m not sure this qualifies.”
“Hmmm,” she sucked in her cheeks and released them with a pop. “We’re going to need help.”
“We?” It wasn’t until I moved that Doris noticed my foot, the folds of my skirt having hidden the walking boot from view.
“Holy cockadoodles, girl, what have you done to yourself? Here, sit, sit.” She tried to guide me toward the armchair, but there was no way I was sitting on that thing. For an old lady she had the driving force of a Mack truck, and I had to plant my feet to stop her from tipping me into the chair.
“It’s fine. Just a small break that will heal quickly,” I protested. “And FYI, I’m not sitting on that.” I pointed to the stained chair, nose wrinkling in disgust. I’d rather sit on the floor. Doris stopped pushing me and eyed the armchair.
“You could be right.” She harumphed. “That does look like it needs—”
“Burning?”
She tipped back her head and laughed, a loud, joyful sound. “Exactly. This whole place needs razing to the ground and starting over.”
“Yeah, but then I’d have nowhere to live.”
Her eyes narrowed, her expression shrewd. “You’re intending to stay?”
I shrugged. “For a while.” Until the SIA found their mole and shut down the counterfeit wand operation. Then I’d be leaving Gravestone and getting on with my life. But Doris didn’t need to know that.
“Right. Well. This won’t do. We need supplies.” She hustled to the door. I’d hoped to air the place out, but the heat from outside, mingling with the heat from inside, made the entire house an overheated, stinking cesspool.
“You find somewhere to sit down and help yourself to refreshments from the cooler,” Doris instructed. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”