“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked. “Other than think about what my deepest, darkest fear is?”

“I may have been a little overdramatic,” he admitted. “Phobias are good—phobias are rooted in our most primal instincts. Great stuff for invoking nightmares. Do you happen to have any phobias I don’t know about? Snakes? Spiders? Heights? Rats gnawing on your entrails?”

“No,” I said. “No, no, and ewww! Are you sure you’re okay with this? I mean, I can keep trying the scary-movies-and-greasy-food approach.”

Sinclair shrugged. “Honestly, I doubt it would do much good. Like you said, manufactured fear can’t compete with the real thing. And since you brought it up,” he added, “I’d really rather you didn’t keep trying while I’m working on this. All you’d do is run the risk of numbing your psyche.” His eyes were dark and grave. “Daisy, if I’m going to do this, I want to make sure it has every possible chance of succeeding.”

I hesitated, then nodded. It would be hard to spend the next two nights idle, but my gut said he was right, and it was a fair request. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Am I okay with this?” Sinclair said. I nodded again. “Not entirely, no. But what you said was true. A low blow, maybe, but true. And Warren’s right, too. I owe you. I owe this entire town for what my mother unleashed on it. If I can help now . . .” He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “How can I say no? I just have to trust that I’m strong enough to handle it.”

“You are.” I caught one of his hands and squeezed it. “You’re a good man, Sinclair. There’s no one else I’d trust to hex me.”

He squeezed my hand in response, summoning a faint smile. “Good to know. See you around eleven?”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

By the time I got home, all hell had broken loose.

“The cat’s out of the bag, Miss Daisy,” Casimir said briefly when I returned his call in response to the urgent voice mail he’d left me. “Someone at the nursing home talked. I suspect the fresh-faced young candy-striper you sent over this morning. I’ve had a run on supplies, and I am fresh out.”

I winced. “Didn’t you order more stock?”

“Yes, I ordered more stock!” There was an impatient edge to his voice. “These things aren’t mass-produced, sweetheart. Do you know what the most effective charm against a predatory member of the fey is?”

“Iron?”

The Fabulous Casimir heaved a sigh. “Iron’s fine as a general precaution. In fact, I’ve been sending customers to Drummond’s Hardware to buy lengths of steel chain to lay around their beds. But as it so happens, the most effective charm under the circumstances is a genuine Saint Brigid’s cross. Mine are hand-woven by an elderly hedge-witch in Ireland out of rushes that grow in a pond fed by a spring that’s been sacred since pre-Christian times, sewn with red thread spun from the wool of sheep she raised herself, and dyed with rowan berries harvested on her property,” he said grimly. “I’ve asked the dear old soul to put a rush on it, but I’m not holding my breath.”

“I get it, I get it!” I said. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“For one thing, don’t send anyone else my way,” Casimir said. “I locked the door and put up the Closed sign, because all I’ve got to offer at this point is a set of instructions I printed off the Internet for weaving your own Saint Brigid’s cross out of drinking straws.”

I paused. “Will it work?”

“Probably not.”

“I’m doing my best, Cas,” I said. “Has Sinclair been in touch?”

“Not today. Why?”

“He will be,” I said. “I’ve asked him to conjure a hex that will give me nightmares. Spine-tingling, bed-wetting nightmares. It’s the only way I’m going to catch this Night Hag. Can you help?”

There was a silence on the other end. “Are you sure about that, Miss Daisy?” Casimir’s voice had turned gentle.

“No,” I said. “Have you got any better ideas?”

“No.”

“Well, we’re going forward with Plan Hex,” I said. “The only downside, other than the prospect of terrifying nightmares and the fact that I have to somehow manage to overcome the Night Hag, is that it’s going to take a few days. Sinclair thinks he can have the charm ready for me by the night after tomorrow—” I heard a muffled banging sound in the background. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, just an angry villager pounding on my door,” Casimir said dourly. “Demanding that I open for business.”

“Cas, you’re going to have to reopen,” I said. “I need you to do whatever you can to reassure people and keep the peace, even if it’s just handing out instructions for weaving a cross out of drinking straws. Keep sending them to the hardware store—that ought to help. The thing is, this Night Hag phenomenon is wired into the human subconscious. Lots of people have reported experiencing an attack when there’s no possible way they could have. There’s a whole syndrome named after it. If people start panicking—”

“It’s going to be pandemonium,” he finished. “All right, all right. I hate to stake my reputation on the placebo effect, but I’ll do what I can.”