Hell Fire

door nonetheless.

A black coven. That made more sense and might even offer a clue as to why they’d gone after my mother. The answer might be as simple as opposing hermetic traditions. That gave me no comfort, mind you, but at least it was comprehensible, when otherwise I’d only been dealing with intuition and ominous foreboding.

It didn’t help us put the pieces together, however.

Only legwork could do that.

By the time the dismal gray sky filled with the diffuse, muted rays that signaled sunset, we’d visited four houses. At the first two, nobody answered, and at the second two, they pretended not to recognize me (or really didn’t) and wouldn’t let us in. They had all been afraid. That offered a clue we would be fools to ignore.

Unfortunately, we had no place to stay for the night, unless we returned to the bed-and-breakfast, where somebody might try to kill us. That possibility wasn’t new, but usually I had some idea why. I suspected Sandra, if for no reason other than because she made my flesh crawl. Somebody in that house was making Jim miserable, and I didn’t think it was Shannon.

“If we’re going to be here a while—”

“Then we need a base of operations,” I finished.

The streets were eerily quiet. I didn’t even bother to look as I crossed toward the Mustang. Only Chance’s choked cry gave me any warning of the car bearing down on me. He dove for me, shoving me out of the way, and we rolled across slick, leafy pavement to collide with the Mustang’s solid tires. I could feel a huge, throbbing bruise on my shoulder where I’d hit, and there would probably be other marks as well.

It would’ve been considerably worse if the car had hit me.

Chance shoved me half under the Mustang, as if to protect me, and then bounded to his feet. From my vantage point on the ground, I saw him drop into a fighting stance, probably in case the car stopped and the driver tried to finish what he’d started. Instead, the vehicle fishtailed around the corner, squealing as he—or she—peeled out away from us.

I checked on Butch, who whimpered up at me. Overall, he seemed less frightened than me. The stupid dog probably trusted me to take care of him.

Chance helped me to my feet with gentle hands. I found myself shaking at the unexpectedness of it. No dark magick, no chill in the air—a pretty mundane murder attempt, when you came right down to it—and there was nothing to ward off, and nothing I could do to protect myself except pay better attention.

“It was an Olds Cutlass,” he said grimly. “Dark blue. Mud all over the plates. Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I managed to say. “Thanks. I guess word’s gotten around, and somebody isn’t happy.”

“Understatement.” As if he couldn’t help it, he wound his arms around me and rested his chin on my hair. His heat seared me through our damp clothes, the lines of his body strong, beautiful, and heart-wrenchingly familiar. “I don’t think my luck had anything to do with this, though.” He sounded hesitant, as if I might blame him for the latest close call. “It feels like it’s hardly working at all here.”

I thought about that and agreed. “Don’t worry, Chance. This one’s on me. If I hadn’t come back, the driver of that car wouldn’t have targeted me. Since I’m back here asking awkward questions after all these years, it means I know something about the night my mama died—and they have something to lose.”

“So do I,” he muttered, running a thumb down my cheek. “I guess it’s pointless to ask you to take the warning and go?”

I answered that with a look. He sighed, let go of me, and opened my car door. As I got into the Mustang, I swept the street with a final glance and noticed twitching curtains on five different houses. They’d seen the near hit-and-run, but nobody came out to see if I was all right. People either hated me a lot more than I’d remembered or they didn’t want to risk being on the streets after dark.

I didn’t think I’d made that many enemies as a kid.

Chance checked his watch as he put the car in gear. “So . . . we’ve had our daily dose of adrenaline. It’s not quite five yet, despite the weather. Let’s see if we can find a real estate agent on the square somewhere.”

I couldn’t remember seeing anything of the sort, but we drove downtown, keeping an eye peeled for anything remotely helpful. Most of the stores were closed already, or had never opened for the day. At ten minutes to the hour, I spotted a small white sign that read REGIS PROPERTY MANAGEMENT.

“That looks promising.”

As Chance parked in a metered spot, I glanced down. Yuck. We’d be hard-pressed to convince the real estate agent we weren’t vagrants, given my current state. While I tried to brush the worst of the dirty leaves off, he came around to open my door. Despite my determination to sort my feelings without letting him influence me, my heart gave a happy little jolt. He knew I was a sucker for such courtly, old-school gestures.

Butch pawed at me from inside the bag. I knew what that meant, so I set him down near the drain beside the curb. He did his business, and then we went on into the office. No bell jingled to sound our entry, but a middle- aged woman sat at a pasteboard desk, writing a memo by hand. There was an old typewriter on the table on the wall to her left. Dreary landscape photos lined the walls, and brochures about property taxes lay scattered on the table.

All told, it was a typical front office . . . if you’d flashed back to 1963. The woman looked mildly annoyed to see us, as it was nearly closing time. She reminded me of a cow, although not in a bad way; she was just placid and well fed. A fake walnut plate in front of her appointment calendar read AGNES PETTIGREW.

“Did you have an appointment to see a house?” she decided to ask when it became clear we weren’t going away.

Chance shook his head. “We were hoping to talk to Mr. Regis about a rental. Are there any apartments or houses to let in town?”

She bestirred herself for him. All women did. “Let me check the books.”

“We have two properties that might qualify,” she told us after a moment. “And a couple of owners might be amenable to a long-term rent-to-buy program. They’re very motivated sellers.”

“Are they?” I asked, exchanging a look with Chance.

Desperate to get out of town, you might say.

Agnes took that as a polite rhetorical question. “But you’ll need to make an appointment. Mr. Regis can’t —”

“What can’t I do?” A booming voice came from the back room.

The door burst open, rebounding against the opposite wall, and the doorway filled with the largest man I’d ever seen in real life.

Destiny for Sale or Rent

Agnes stammered. I didn’t blame her. I wouldn’t have wanted to be caught trying to organize this man’s life for him, even if I did know best. But she didn’t look frightened; instead her gaze gobbled him up. As she stared up at him, her mouth went soft and she propped her chin in her hand.

Curious, I brushed her jacket with my fingertips. I didn’t expect much of a burn; there shouldn’t be any trauma associated with this object. The pain was slight, and the coat showed me that they usually walked out together. He made sure she got to her car safely each night, and he sometimes stood by the driver’s side, chatting to her, after he shut her door. Wonder if he knows how much that means. I could see her face tilted up toward him, reflected back in the rearview mirror, and these moments meant everything to her.

“You don’t have time to talk to these folks tonight, Phillip,” Miss Pettigrew said then. “They should schedule a proper appointment.”

And you won’t miss your nightly date.

The real estate agent dismissed her concerns with a wave of one meaty paw. “Go home, Agnes. I can talk to these folks without you hovering, so don’t worry. You won’t miss Wheel of Fortune. Lock up on your way out and flip the sign to ‘Closed.’ I can surely handle this myself.”