I vowed revenge on Patricia, but hadn’t been able to come up with a good plan to bring her down a notch that wouldn’t send me to jail. I’d been arrested once before (I was cleared of all charges, I swear!), and I didn’t care to go through that again.
In the end, it was fate that had delivered the ultimate comeuppance to Patricia. Eight months ago, Dylan had come back to Hitching Post, and this past summer we’d rekindled our relationship.
Patricia had been beside herself when she found out. And she was still beside herself now, three months later.
Bless her heart.
After dropping the cardboard box that the potion bottles had been delivered in onto the floor, I then gave it a gentle kick, sending it sliding to the center of the room. Like a mythological siren that called to unsuspecting sailors, it took only a second for the box’s enchantment to awaken two of the laziest creatures on Earth from their slumber.
Roly and Poly, my fluffy gray and white cats, raced to investigate this new and exciting addition to the shop, slipping and sliding and tumbling over each other to be the first to lay claim. Poly, with his considerable girth, never stood a chance at winning that contest. Slender Roly leaped into the box and immediately flopped on her back to roll about in ecstasy. Never one to be left out, Poly plopped in next to her, and I lowered the top flaps of their new fort. They’d be occupied for hours.
“And you know what day tomorrow is,” I reminded my mother.
Halloween.
Come midnight, my peaceful little witchy world would be on its way to hell in a handbasket.
At the reminder, a chill swept down my spine one vertebra at a time, raising goose bumps in its wake.
Halloween marked the day when some sort of between-world portal opened, and a few spirits started rising from their graves, followed by even more the next day—All Saints’ Day—but it was All Souls’ Day, November second, that made me want to hide under my bed like Roly and Poly did during a thunderstorm.
Because this was my storm. A ghostly one.
All Souls’ Day, a religious holy day spent praying for the dead, was when the majority of spirits who hadn’t yet been able to cross over for whatever reason rose from their graves and began wandering around looking for anyone to help them. Only a select few could even see the ghosts, and once eye contact was made, that was it. There was no getting rid of them until they saw the light . . . or until the portal closed again at midnight, November third.
For empaths, however, there was an added element to this ghostly dilemma. We could see them, and we could also feel them . . . what killed them, specifically. Although I had a charmed locket that helped me block unwanted energy from others, it was absolutely powerless against spirits. My best defense was to avoid them altogether.
Because of that, later today I’d close the shop for the night, and I wouldn’t be back until Wednesday morning, November third. During that time, my daddy and my best friend, Ainsley, would cover the shop in my absence.
I planned to hole up at home, lock my doors and windows, pull the shades, put on noise-canceling headphones and hide until it was safe to come out.
Mama let out a gusty breath. “Yes, I know. But that’s not until midnight. Plenty of time to make an appearance, talk up your daddy’s numerous qualifications, and get home before your carriage turns into a pumpkin.”
I glanced out the front window in time to see a miniature zombie waddle past the front of the shop, quickly followed by a vampire, two ice princesses, and a tall witch with a long black cape flowing out behind her.
In celebration of Halloween the town was hosting a big to-do all weekend. Today’s events included a treasure hunt, a jack-o’-lantern contest, and of course—because Hitching Post was the wedding capital of the South—numerous ghoulish weddings.
The witch peeled off from the rest of the pack and opened the door to the shop, a basket holding a little black dog looped over one arm, a garment bag draped over the other.
This time of year might be the only time of year my cousin, black magic witch Delia Bell Barrows, who wore that cape year-round, fit in with a crowd.
Delia came to a dead stop at the box in the middle of the floor, and Poly’s gray paw poked through the cutout handle as though waving hello.
Lifting a pale thin eyebrow, she glanced at me, amusement in her ice blue eyes.
“Mama,” I said, “I’ve got to go. Someone just came in.” She didn’t need to know it was a social visit and not a customer.
Delia set the basket on the floor, and her dog, Boo—a black Yorkie-mix—hopped out and immediately started sniffing the box. Poly stuck his arm farther out of the hole to tap Boo’s head. Bop, bop, bop.
“But Carly! We’re not—”
“I’ll see you tonight, Mama. At the party.”
“Wait!” she exclaimed. “What did you say?”
“I’ll be there. I’m Dylan’s plus one.”
Her voice rose to a twangy falsetto. “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”
I’d been known on occasion to incite my mother just to see her get all fired up. It was that mischievous streak in me. “I’ve got to go, Mama.”