Jojo (nickname) the joe-pye weed fairy: One large favor owed for identifying a hex charm created by Emmeline Palmer.

Jojo the joe-pye weed fairy never got to claim that favor. Talman Brannigan—or at least his reanimated remains—had cut her down in midflight while she was attempting to defend my ex-boyfriend Sinclair Palmer, whose secret twin sister had hexed me some weeks earlier.

Have I mentioned that my life is complicated?

I let the cursor hover over Jojo’s entry, thinking I should probably delete it, then decided against it. Maybe someday I could repay the favor to one of her clan, assuming joe-pye weed fairies had a clan.

Since there was nothing of use to be found in the ledger, I elected to pay a visit to one of my favorite resources: Mr. Leary, my old high school Myth and Literature teacher, who knew more eldritch folklore than most members of the community themselves.

Mr. Leary lived in a charming old cottage in East Pemkowet, which is a separate governmental entity from the city of Pemkowet proper and Pemkowet Township; a distinction that often confuses tourists since the three are joined at the hip for all intents and purposes.

“Daisy Johanssen!” He greeted me effusively at the door, waving a mug. “Welcome, my favorite ontological anomaly. I hope you’ve brought me an interesting conundrum to ponder. Can I entice you to join me in a hot rum toddy on this dreary day?”

I considered the offer. After all, it was a dreary day, and technically speaking, I wasn’t on the job. “You know what? That sounds delightful.”

“Wonderful!” Mr. Leary beamed at me. Well, maybe beamed wasn’t the right word. With his long, saturnine features and majestic mane of white hair, Mr. Leary wasn’t a beamy kind of guy, but he definitely looked pleased. I guess when you’re that passionate about your libations, it’s nice to have someone to share them with.

He ushered me into his tidy bachelor’s kitchen, where I perched on a stool and watched him set about making a rum toddy with all the ceremony of a priest preparing to offer communion. The teakettle was filled with fresh water. Once that reached a boil, Mr. Leary used a pair of silver tongs to place one sugar cube in the bottom of a mug. After dissolving the sugar in boiling water, he added two precisely measured ounces of rum, topped the mug with more water and garnished it with a slice of lemon.

“La pièce de résistance,” he announced, retrieving a whole nutmeg and a microplane grater from the counter. With judicious care, he passed the nutmeg over the grater three times, studied the results, then took a final swipe. “One simply must use fresh whole nutmeg.” He handed me the mug with a grave nod. “I consider that one of life’s great truths, Daisy. Heed it well.”

I hid my smile behind the mug. “I will.”

In the living room, we followed our familiar ritual and took our seats on the overstuffed furniture draped with old-fashioned crocheted antimacassars. For the record, I had no idea what Mr. Leary’s sexual orientation was. Although he always seemed pleased to see me, he also seemed perfectly content without companionship. I thought for a while, when he was spending time with poor old Emma Sudbury, that that might turn into something, but it appeared their friendship was purely platonic.

“So!” Mr. Leary set his mug on a coaster and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “What do you have for me?”

I took a sip of my rum toddy—and he might be onto something with that fresh nutmeg, because it was delicious—and told him about Scott Evans’s experience.

“Oh, dear.” Mr. Leary gave a disappointed sigh. “I was so hoping for a good challenge.”

“Not so much, huh?”

He gave me a look. “What an appalling colloquialism that is. The good news is that the phenomenon is easily identified.” Rising, he perused his bookshelves and selected a volume of folklore. “In layman’s terms it’s called Night Hag Syndrome,” he said, finding the page he wanted and handing me the book. “It’s actually a common form of sleep disorder called sleep paralysis.”

I skimmed the entry, which fit Scott Evans’s description to a T. So did the accompanying illustration of a beaky old crone crouching on the chest of a nubile young woman. Well, the crone part, anyway. “So you’re saying the Night Hag doesn’t exist?”

Mr. Leary shook his head. “It’s a hypnopompic hallucination. It’s been well documented at clinics that specialize in sleep disorders,” he added. “There’s one affiliated with the hospital in Appeldoorn. You might suggest that the young fellow pay it a visit.”

If Scott Evans wasn’t even taking whatever meds he’d been prescribed for post–traumatic stress disorder, I doubted he’d be willing to go to a sleep clinic, but it couldn’t hurt to suggest it to Dawn. Maybe he’d be amenable to the idea once his mood was stabilized.

“Thank you,” I said. “I will.”

Mr. Leary hoisted his mug. “At your service, my dear.”

      Five

There was another line of inquiry I was planning to pursue regarding the Night Hag—it was good to have a name to put to her, even if she was a hallucination—just to cover all my bases, but I was distracted by a call from Lee Hastings asking if we could meet for an update on his investigation.

Long story short, there was a mysterious lawyer representing an unknown entity that was buying up large tracts of undeveloped land in Pemkowet. I’d caught a glimpse of him, and I was pretty sure he was a hell-spawn like me.