The last time I’d seen Sinclair’s altar, the candles had been white. It was an unpleasant reminder of the line I’d asked him to cross.

One by one, he lit the black tapers from the pillar, setting them carefully back in place. A faint acrid scent arose. “Okay.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

“More or less.” Sinclair looked tired. “I need to let the candles burn down tonight, then another set tomorrow, and another the day after. Then it’s all yours.”

“You don’t need a drop of blood or a lock of my hair or anything like that?”

He shook his head. “No. Put it under your pillow when it’s ready. It’s the same kind of charm Emmy used on you,” he added. “A real practitioner would probably hide it under your mattress.”

“Remind me to start checking under my mattress.” I got to my feet. “Thanks. I owe you.”

He gave me a tired smile. “Put it in your ledger.”

“I know you’re joking, but I will. I’m starting to take that thing seriously.” A thought struck me. “Hey, Thanksgiving’s next week, isn’t it? Would you like to join Mom and me for dinner? I don’t mean to brag, but we throw a mean feast.”

Sinclair hesitated.

“That’s okay.” I backtracked. “You’re probably going down to Kalamazoo to spend it with your dad.”

“No, we never really celebrated Thanksgiving,” he said. “It’s not something my father grew up with. But, um, Stacey invited me to have Thanksgiving dinner with her family.”

“Oh.” I felt stupid. “Well, you should go, obviously.”

“Look, it’s not like this is some big introduce-the-new-boyfriend-to-the-family thing, Daisy,” he said. “I mean, I already know her mother. It’s just . . . Stacey knew I didn’t have any relatives in town, and her brother’s coming in for the holiday, and—”

“It’s okay.” I held up one hand. “Don’t worry about it. It was just a thought.”

“A nice thought.” Sinclair smiled again, this time with genuine warmth. “Thanks, sistah.”

“Anytime.”

“Do you want to hang out until Jen gets back?” He nodded at the altar. “I’ve got to stay up until these burn down anyway.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.” Even if I wasn’t exhausted, the scenario had a definite third-wheel feel to it. It didn’t help that Sinclair had used the words new boyfriend in reference to his relationship with Stacey freakin’ Brooks. “I’m pretty beat. You’ll let me know when the charm’s ready?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I’ll light the third set of candles as soon as my last tour ends on Sunday.”

“Great.”

On that note, I drove home alone to my couch and my cat, where I fell asleep watching Katherine Heigl agonize her way through 27 Dresses.

At least the programming gods of mediocre romantic comedies were still with me.

      Nineteen

The good thing about the following two days was that there were no further Night Hag casualties.

The bad thing was . . . well, pretty much everything else. The chief was right; if it hadn’t been for the Halloween debacle, the town wouldn’t have gotten so riled up. Longtime residents of Pemkowet regarded the eldritch community with a complicated mixture of indulgence, pride, and tolerance. Everyone knew that if you didn’t want to consort with ghouls, you avoided the Wheelhouse. If you didn’t want to consort with vampires, you stayed the hell away from Twilight Manor and declined any offers from unnaturally pallid individuals hitting on you at last call.

By and large, there were places you didn’t go and things you didn’t do. As for the more malicious fey, the pranks they played on humans were considered the province of tourists, or foolish local kids who ignored their parents’ warnings.

Now it was different.

It was different because the Night Hag was doing what the Tall Man had done: going after Pemkowet’s own.

People were scared and angry, and they had a right to be. Even though Doc Howard had ruled that Mrs. Claussen’s death was due to natural causes, which I guess was technically true, the rumor was out there.

Everyone knew.

Everyone was afraid.

And as a result, we got a steady stream of complaints regarding Night Hag attacks, with the majority of calls coming in from around three to six o’clock in the morning. With either me or Cody in tow, Chief Bryant followed up on each and every report personally, using the dwarf-wrought watch I’d given him to check for residual signs of eldritch presence.

Ironically, there weren’t any.

Either the Night Hag was lying low or the precautions Casimir recommended had succeeded in protecting those at the highest risk of an attack. Or the bitch had left town altogether, which I almost hoped wasn’t true, because I had plans for her.

Well, assuming Sinclair’s hex worked, at any rate, and assuming I could manage to overcome the Night Hag. And yes, I know what they say about “assume.” Call it wishful thinking; call it denial; but I figured I’d sweat the details when the time came.

Needless to say, no one in town took the chief’s assurances that their perceived attacks were the products of an over-fevered imagination particularly well. It’s just not a flattering thing to hear. Thank God for the Fabulous Casimir, because if it hadn’t been for him, I suspect we would have had triple the number of complaints. As it was, Drummond’s Hardware ran out of steel chain and Tafts Grocery sold out of boxes of drinking straws.