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Keep your head on.
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Journi paused for a breath to allow the caller their moment of theatrical glory, then she said, “Hello, Miguel.”
Miguel Garcia, owner of Sooth It Real Good—one of two other soothsaying agencies in Columbus—sighed with so much melodrama, it practically bitch-slapped Journi through the line. “How dare you not come to my birthday party, chica,” he said, and she could almost envision him staring haughtily at his gold-lacquered fingernails. “I saved your skinny white ass a cupcake.”
Journi couldn’t help but smirk. Unlike Abraham Fellows, who operated Fellows’ Futures across town, she actually liked Miguel. They wouldn’t be braiding each other’s hair anytime soon, but they maintained a professional relationship and had joined forces on a couple of cases in the past.
“Last time I checked, my ass didn’t eat cupcakes,” Journi said dryly. “And I never received an invite.”
“Don’t go blaming the postman,” he said, and she heard the distinct sound of him snapping his fingers. “I sent it telepathically.”
Climbing on the scooter, Journi rolled her eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you my gift doesn’t work like that?”
“Disparates,” he scoffed. “Only because you keep it chained. You need to let it loose, mami.”
Despite the numerous conversations they’d had on the matter, Miguel had steadfastly refused to believe that Journi’s gifts were confined to tactile methods. He insisted that, if she would only open herself to the power, she could see the future on command, rather than needing to touch whoever or whatever required a vision.
“The only thing I’m letting loose is my boot up your—”
“Okay, okay,” he interrupted with a sigh. “My receptionist said you were obnoxious when you called earlier. What’s up?”
Journi scowled. His receptionist, Ormelia, was a three-hundred-year-old troll who put the rude in rude. “That’s kind of the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” Journi asked but went on before he could answer. “I’m getting some vibes over here. Bad ones. Just wanted to touch base and see if you’d picked up anything as well.”
Miguel sobered. “Sí,” he said. “Been hearing a war drum in the west. Thought it was just mojito overload. Liquor tweaks my sight. You know how it is.”
Journi wasn’t a big drinker herself, but yeah, one too many hard lemonades tended to dull her visions—not always an unwelcome phenomenon—so she could relate. “You said it came from the west?”
“Sí.”
Pulling up her mental map of the city, Journi considered Sooth It Real Good’s location.
East of Bexley.
East of Olivia Burke’s house.
Not good.
“Damn,” she murmured. “Anything specific?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve had my hands full with rival chocolatiers wanting to know what their most popular Halloween candy will be. Have you met a chocolatier during a holiday?” She could almost hear him shudder. “Now they’re scary.”
Though her unease still festered, Journi grinned. “Thanks, Miguel. Let me know if anything pops for you, okay?”
“Will do.” He hesitated and then asked quietly, “Should I be worried?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. The ghastly futures seemed to be swimming slow circles around the Burkes alone, but a shift in the tide could change that. If one thing was certain about mutating visions, it was that they mutated and were never certain. “Maybe. I’ll call you when I know more.”
“Suena bien,” he said and then paused as Ormelia’s deep, rumbling voice sounded in the background. Miguel snapped something in Spanish, then returned to the line. “Gotta go, chica. Keep your head on.”
Journi smiled and wished him the same. “Keep your head on.”
Then, hanging up, she mounted the scooter with a sigh, her smile fading. That Miguel hadn’t foreseen anything similar was both good and bad. Good because it indicated that, despite all evidence to the contrary, the problem might be a minor one. And bad because she still lacked any insight he might have been able to give her. All she could do now was wait on her visions to reveal more.
And get to the shelter on time before Aunt Frieda blew a gasket.
The drive across town took Journi longer than it would have under normal circumstances. She had to stop more than once to let a gaggle of costumed kids cross the street, their eyes alight with glee behind their plastic masks. And at the corner of Donahue and Fifth, an unkempt vampire hurried up to her scooter wielding a creased cardboard sign that read WILL WORK FOR BLOOD, his pale face gaunt. She’d had to shin-check him with her steel-toed boots before he moved on to the car behind her in hopes of an easier target.
When she finally pulled alongside the curb in front of the Hissing Booth, Aunt Frieda was already surrounded by trick or treaters. Journi parked the scooter and dismounted, leaving her helmet behind. Retrieving the chocolate from her under-seat storage compartment, she walked over, her inner warty-nosed spinster already annoyed by the sight and sound of so many jostling, shouting kids.
Like Paige’s Books & Gifts, Frieda had gone all out at the shelter. Pumpkins, carved in the shape of cats with candles flickering inside them, graced the concrete steps, and a fake graveyard had been erected in the patch of grass along the curb beneath the oak tree. Charming phrases like Hiss in Peace and Puss-in-Boots Lies Here marked the foam tombstones. Ghosts made from sheets swayed amongst the tree’s branches, and a giant, inflatable black cat wearing a crooked witch’s hat loomed over the candy station, the faint hum of its fan barely audible over the melee.
Frieda herself was dressed as a scarecrow, her usual jeans and T-shirt replaced by denim overalls and a flannel shirt. A floppy straw hat covered her short salt-and-pepper curls, and she’d painted freckles on her brown cheeks. The twinkle in her eye belied her sixty-seven years, and she passed out candy with a grin while holding a travel mug that almost certainly held something stronger than coffee.
Journi waited until the crowd dispersed and then claimed the lawn chair beside Frieda’s. “Sorry I’m late.”
Frieda side-eyed her and took advantage of the momentary interlude to light a cigarette, the flare glinting off her glasses. “Thought you stood me up.”
Dumping her offerings into the bowl, Journi glanced up the street. Huddles of trick or treaters worked their way door to door, and the sound of laughter and recorded werewolf howls carried on the breeze. “And risk your wrath? Not on your life.”
Frieda smirked, uncrossing her legs as she eyed the miniature chocolate bars. “You couldn’t even buy a fresh bag?”
Offended, Journi glanced at her. “Candy is candy, isn’t it?”
“If you were any tighter, you’d squeak when you walked,” Frieda said, but then her grin faded. “The cats are uneasy tonight. Something is working.”
Journi observed the cats in question. Frieda had brought out a few cages to display the felines in hopes of catching the eyes of potential adopters. In separate cages, two adult cats waited—a gray tabby and a calico—and another cage contained an assortment of kittens in various colors and sizes. The adults were lazily grooming themselves, while the kittens simultaneously slept and played. They didn’t look uneasy. Then again, Journi didn’t know the first thing about cats, whereas Frieda had an uncanny communion with them. If she said they were uneasy, they were uneasy.
Journi could relate.
“I had a dark vision today,” Journi said. “Two actually.”
Frieda looked at her, the cigarette poised at her mouth. “How dark?”
Journi cringed as images of bloody, mutilated children surfaced in her mind. “Dark.”
Frieda considered that and returned her gaze to the street, drawing on her cigarette. “Got a handle on it?”
Though Frieda was the least magically inclined woman in their family, she was no less formidable, and like Josephine and Gramma Jude, she’d jump naked and covered in chicken fat into a pit of alligators to protect her own. It was one of the many reasons Journi adored her. “I’m not sure,” Journi admitted and relayed what she’d witnessed. “Those kids are in danger, and Mrs. Burke isn’t cooperating.”
Sipping her drink, Frieda looked grim. “Think she could be behind it?”
“Could be,” Journi said. “But I don’t think so.”
Frieda nodded. “The nanny?”
Journi shook her head. “No. She’s legit.”
In fact, Hayley was so legit, Journi got the feeling she loved Tilda and the yet-to-be-named Baby Boy Burke more than their own mother did. And while Olivia was a grade-A stuffed shirt, she wasn’t a killer, either. Journi had encountered enough to know the difference.
Mulling it over, Frieda’s thoughtful expression was almost comical given her costume. “Could be a mistress,” she mused. “If the husband has a side chick, she might be trying to eliminate the competition.”
Journi paused from opening a peanut-butter cup. “Did you just say side chick?”
Frieda shrugged. “It’s what they’re called these days.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Journi made a face and moved on. “A side chick is possible. I’ll look into it.”
It was possible, and it made sense. A jilted lover eliminating all obstacles standing between her and her man. But if that were true, why wasn’t she going after Olivia Burke too? Or had Mr. Burke implied that his kids were the only thing binding him to his marriage? Had he inadvertently put Tilda and Baby Boy Burke in danger? Or, for that matter, was he behind the hexing himself? Maybe fatherhood didn’t suit him. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to pay child support in the event of his and Olivia’s divorce. Though, as Journi considered it, the latter didn’t jive. Obviously, Mr. Burke had dollar bills flying out of every orifice, and Olivia had seemed to think he would be pleased to find out she carried a boy. At any rate, Journi needed to know more about the man.
“I’d like to get Gramma Jude into that house,” Journi said. “Mom too. See if they can pick up anything.”
Frieda nodded. “Better sooner rather than later, sounds like.”
“Yeah,” Journi agreed. The vision hadn’t given her a timestamp. She had no way of knowing when the Burkes’ tragedy would strike. It could be hours from now or years from now. Considering both children had manifested as children in the nightmare vision, however, Journi had to assume it would be soon. “And I thought you could jump in. There’s a cat.”
“I’m there,” Frieda said, blowing out a plume of smoke that looked a lot like a cat’s tail.
“Thanks,” Journi sighed, relaxing a little. The tension eased from her shoulders. She’d gotten used to the mundane, and the reminder that it had never been permanent filled her with frustration. She could deal with strange, whimsical, and downright bizarre, but sinister, evil, and bloody were another story. But having a trio of wizened badasses at her back went a long way toward pulling up her proverbial bootstraps.
Frieda gazed at the street and shrugged as if battling evildoers as a sixty-seven-year-old was just another checkmark on her to-do list. “We’re family. It’s what we do.”
“I know,” Journi said as a couple stopped by with their toddler, who was dressed as a cow.
Frieda dropped a fistful of candy in the kid’s bag and smiled at the parents before the family walked on. To Journi, Frieda continued, “But even if we weren’t, you’d survive. You’re a McCutcheon. Remember that.”
Journi glanced at her with a frown. “What do you mean ‘if we weren’t’?”
Waving it off with her cigarette, Frieda said, “I’m just saying. Family is great. It’s everything. But you’d be all right either way. It’s worth knowing.”
Before Journi could respond, another group of greedy beggars arrived. Between her and Frieda, it took a good ten minutes to drop candy into all their bags, and by the time the throng shuffled on, Journi’s allergy to anyone under the age of eighteen was in full swing.
When the crowd dispersed, Frieda scowled at her. “You don’t have to be so stingy with the candy, Journi. For crying out loud.”
“What?” Journi said defensively. “Did you see how full those bags were already?”
Shaking her head, Frieda looked up as a man approached. “Dr. Anders,” Frieda greeted him as if she’d been waiting for him all evening. She indicated the cheery beagle that accompanied him. “You using this poor hound to get yourself some candy?”
Dr. Anders, who turned out to be quite young for a doctor, grinned at Frieda and bent to pat the dog’s tri-colored side. “You know it. It’s why I adopted him.”
Chuckling, Frieda gestured toward Journi. “This is my great-niece, Journi. She’s here against her will.”
Dr. Anders turned his gaze on Journi, and she was appalled to discover that his grin bore dimples. “Slave labor, huh?” he asked and held out his hand. “I’m Daniel.”
“Yeah,” Journi said, offering him an I-hate-small-talk smile and taking his hand. “She’s a real tyrant.”
His gaze lingered on Journi’s piercings and black lipstick. “Are you supposed to be a witch?”
Being mistaken for a witch twice in one day wasn’t a personal best, but the night was young. Annoyed, Journi started to reply, but Frieda beat her to the punch. “No,” she said dryly. “She always looks that way.”
Journi glared at her, and Dr. Daniel looked pained. “I just thought with Halloween and all . . .” he said and then cringed. “I mean, I like black. I love black. Who doesn’t love black?”
Frieda laughed so hard she coughed on her cigarette smoke. “Don’t worry, Doc. She’s been called worse. Trust me.”
“Thanks a lot,” Journi said but then considered the statement before making a well, yeah face.
Dr. Daniel grinned and then glanced at Frieda. “How are things at the shelter? Tomboy’s ringworm healing?”
“Fine,” Frieda said. “Full. And he’s all fixed up thanks to you.”
Journi eyed Dr. Daniel again and realized he was the shelter’s veterinarian. When Frieda had said doctor, Journi had assumed she’d meant a human one. But as his dog gazed up at him with adoration, she decided it fit.
“That developer still harassing you?” he asked Frieda, stepping off the sidewalk to let a couple teenagers dressed in zombie masks prowl by.
Journi looked over. “What developer?”
Frieda tapped off her cigarette’s ashes. “It’s nothing. Not worth mentioning.”
Journi frowned. This was the first she’d heard of it.
Daniel nodded and glanced at a rabid group of beggars headed their way. “Well, I’d better get Murphy here home. Looks like you’re about to be swarmed.”
Frieda held up a finger as if to halt him and reached into a basket beside her chair, pulling out a dog biscuit. “For the pooch.”
Daniel laughed and said to the beagle, “Can you say trick or treat, Murph?”
Murphy barked and wagged his tail, enraptured by the proffered biscuit.
“Good enough for me,” Frieda said around her cigarette and relinquished the treat.
The dog devoured his prize with glee.
“And I go home emptyhanded,” Daniel said with mock bewilderment.
“Here,” Journi said, tossing him a candy from her bowl.
He caught it midair with startling speed and winked at her. “Thanks.”
Journi studied him, intrigued. It would seem there was more to the good doctor than dimples and charm.
He ignored her scrutiny, though, and left, Murphy trotting obediently at his heel. As Journi watched them go, she wondered just what kind of beastie he was. He wasn’t a Middling, that much was certain. No ordinary human had reflexes like that.
“Got a nice ass, don’t he?” Frieda asked, interrupting her musings.
Journi turned to her in horrified amusement. “Good Lord, Aunt Frieda.”
Frieda shrugged. “Well, he does.”
Against her will, Journi glanced at the ass in question and had to agree, but all she said was, “It’s hideous.”
Laughing, Frieda drew on her cigarette. “Sure it is.”
“Who’s the developer?”
Frieda’s smile faded, and she glanced back at the shelter as if reminding herself it was still there. “Just some luxury apartment big wig wanting to buy the HB.” She turned back around and shook her head. “Told him it’s not for sale and to hit the road.”
“And did he?”
Her wrinkled mouth curved. “After some persuading.”
Journi chuckled. Despite her age, Frieda could be damned intimidating when she wanted to be. “Good.”
A pack of trick or treaters approached, and Frieda stamped out her cigarette, readying her candy bowl. Journi glanced at her phone. It was only seven. Beggar’s night wasn’t over for another two hours, and she still wanted to talk to Gramma Jude about the dark vision. As Frieda launched into the adopt-don’t-shop spiel for the kids’ parents who were eyeballing the cage of kittens, Journi wondered what time Josephine would be home from her dinner theater. With any luck, Journi and the three elder women could rendezvous at the Burke house yet tonight. Olivia might not trust Journi, but the woman would be hard-pressed not to trust Josephine. If the Jehovah’s-Witness-chic attire didn’t do the trick, Josephine’s empathic gifts surely would. Journi’s mother had a knack for calming people that rivaled Xanax.
“Trick or treat,” a muffled voice said.
A gaggle of kids had branched off from their parents and were looking at Journi expectantly behind various masks.
“Oh,” Journi said, grabbing a handful of candy. “Right. Here you go.”
Instead of holding open her bag, a fairy princess reached for the candy with her hand, brushing Journi’s fingers with her own.
And Journi stepped right off the cliff of reality and into a vision.
A vision identical to the Burkes’.
It was like swimming in a sea of blood and torment with no life preserver. All she could do was watch the gruesome spectacle with painfully wide eyes, the girl’s screams clawing their way into her eardrums. Into her brain.
“Journi,” a muted voice called from beyond the veil. “Journi Renee, get back here right now.”
Journi blinked and stumbled out of the vision, her head spinning even though she was still seated in her lawn chair. Aunt Frieda. It had been her voice. Journi looked over to see her aunt staring pointedly at her. Heart pounding, Journi turned back to the girl, who was now crying because Journi had clamped her hand in a viselike grip.
“Let my daughter go,” a woman said, sounding appalled. “What are you doing?”
The mother. The kid’s mother was glaring down at Journi as if ready to whack her with her purse.
Still reliving the ghastly vision, it took Journi a moment to obey. “Sorry,” she said. It came out hoarse, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m sorry.”
Unappeased, the woman hmphed and strode off, pulling the sniffling fairy princess behind her.
When they were out of earshot, Frieda looked at Journi. “Do tell.”
Journi stared after the mother and daughter. Though the kid was cute in pink tulle and glittered wings, all Journi could see was blood. So much blood.
Which meant things had just gone from bad to worse. Like, straight to Worse Town on the Worse Train.
She tore her gaze away from the walking dead girl and turned to Frieda. “This is bad.”
Frieda’s brown eyes were grim. “How bad?”
Journi leaned forward and shook her head, the truth sinking into her like a rusty railroad spike. “The threat isn’t confined to the Burkes anymore.”
Frowning, Frieda looked in the direction the fairy princess had gone. “The Smiths’ little girl?”
“Yeah.”
Concern etched Frieda’s face. “They adopted two kittens last fall. Nice family.”
Did said nice family have ties to the Burkes? Or was someone going after random kids?
Journi recalled the Davenport girl from Tilda’s future. In the vision, Kennedy had been excluded from the carnage. Was she special? Or had the radius of death expanded since this afternoon? And what about adults? Were they in danger too?
She stood, tossing her phone to her aunt. “Call mom and Gramma Jude.”
Frieda started dialing immediately. “What are you going to do?”
Eying another incoming group of beggars, Journi took a deep breath, mentally preparing for the onslaught. Each vision so far had caught her off guard, and she’d been unprepared for the guts and gore. But this time, she was ready. “I’m going to go touch some kids.”
When Frieda paused and cut her a look, Journi scowled. “That’s not what I meant.”
Frieda arched her eyebrows but turned her attention to the phone. “Jude, it’s Frieda.”
Relieved that Gramma Jude and Josephine would soon be on their way, Journi grabbed her candy bowl and started walking. If it turned out that kids all over Columbus were headed to the slaughterhouse, Journi had a much bigger problem on her hands than a jealous mistress, and she’d need all the help she could get.
As she approached two kids walking with what appeared to be an elder sibling who was scrolling through his phone with a bored expression, Journi looked at the younger two and asked, “Hey, want some candy?”
The group stopped, and the oldest, a teenage boy, glanced distractedly at Journi before returning to his phone. The two kids, however—a cowboy and a sheet-wearing ghost—nodded, holding out their bags and murmuring the required, “Trick or treat.”
Journi dropped a few pieces into each bag, then brushed the cowboy’s hand, channeling her magic. The vision came hard, fast, and terrible.
And familiar.
Almost as quickly as she’d stepped into the vision, she stepped out, refocusing on the kid’s hesitant face. Dizziness swirled through her, but she ignored it and smiled. She’d been ready this time, and the magical jetlag wasn’t nearly as debilitating. “Nice costume.”
“Thanks,” the boy muttered and opened his bag to see what kind of candy he’d scored, ignorant to the nightmare that was his future.
She turned to the ghost, whose face was obscured by the sheet. All she could see were two blue eyes peering out of the holes. “That’s a scary ring,” Journi said, glancing at the purple plastic spider ring on the kid’s finger. “Can I see it?”
Nodding, the kid thrust out the ringed finger. “My teacher gave it to me.”
Journi took the offered hand.
More blood. More screams. More death.
Swallowing, Journi let go and stood, not bothering to reply. She jogged on to the next bunch of beggars, throwing herself into the moving crowd, dropping candy in bags and buckets while touching as many people as she could.
The visions piled up. Each worse than the last.
By the time she emerged on the other side of the trick-or-treater swarm, she was shaking and breathless. Stunned, she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, holding the nearly empty bowl of candy, and looked around the street in a daze. There were kids everywhere. Costumed and full of life and sugar, some laughing, some whining. Some were being pushed in strollers or pulled in wagons. Others ran up to doors on their own, eager to fill their bags.
And every single one of them was doomed to die.
