seriously consider the idea that our firebug isn’t a usual one. He’s not after money. He’s not trying to cover up another crime. My sense is that this is ritualistic, an occult crime.”
“Damn.” Marsh rubbed the scar on his head. “Halloween’s coming up, and all the crazies are out early.”
“Devil’s Night is just over two weeks away.”
Detroit was notorious for the night before Halloween, Devil’s Night. The criminal element appeared in full force to commit all manner of mischief and property damage; entire city blocks had burned in the seventies. The fires had waned in the late nineties, but the economic crises of recent years had created sufficient psychological fuel to reignite the blazes: unemployment, despair, and anger. Last year alone had seen more than thirty houses, several dozen cars, a post office, and a shopping mall burned to the ground.
Marsh frowned. “I hope this isn’t the firebug’s idea of practice.”
Anya stared through the glass. There was no sign that the firebug was interested in stopping himself. She would have to stop him before the burn unit got more crowded.
Anya wondered what Katie’s neighbors would have thought if they’d known that a witch lived in their little piece of suburbia. Small brick ranch houses lined Katie’s quiet street. Streetlamps and yard and porch lights revealed concrete yard ornaments standing guard over mulched flowerbeds and postage-stamp-sized yards. But this chunk of the middleclass American dream seemed to be slipping away, as Anya could see more and more FOR SALE signs cropping up like dandelions. On Katie’s street alone, there were five signs with paper flyers stacked in clear plastic sleeves, touting improvements to a market that didn’t exist. The grass was beginning to grow tall around those signs.
The witch in their midst was standing her ground, however. Katie’s porch light cheerily illuminated marigolds around the front step going to seed. Her door was decorated for Halloween with a wreath wrapped in orange and black ribbons. From the maple tree in the front yard, she’d hung bats and tiny ghosts. Anya was surprised that the neighborhood kids hadn’t run off with them, but perhaps the kids had moved away with their parents.
Katie appeared at the front door, and Anya could smell something delicious through the screen. She’d given up her baker’s uniform for an ankle-length tiered skirt and tank top, her long hair tied back in a ponytail. Her bare toes curled over the doorframe.
“C’mon in. Soup’s on.”
The instant Anya crossed the threshold of the witch’s domain, Sparky shivered with excitement. He peeled himself off Anya’s neck and leaped lightly to the floor. His spadeshaped head twisted right and left, peering intently under the fringed velvet couch, around the floor cushions, into the fireplace overhung with drying herbs smelling of lavender and rosemary.
Shining eyes peered from the hallway. Named after Vernors ginger ale and Faygo pop, both Katie’s cats were fully carbonated—shake ’em up, and they went off like rockets. And they were primed and ready for Sparky’s arrival.
Vern took the offensive. The gray-striped tabby circled behind the couch, stalking Sparky’s irresistibly lashing tail. Fay, a round calico cat, stealthily crept across the wooden floor in slow motion as Sparky nosed in the fireplace.
And all hell broke loose. Sparky’s head whipped around in delight as he caught sight of Fay. Fay scrambled backward on the slippery hardwood floor and skidded down the hallway. Sparky gave chase, short legs churning in the air. Vern leaped from behind the couch, startling Sparky. Sparky rolled, Vern pounced on his tail, and the two tumbled down the hall in a series of trills and snorts.
“I wish I could see Sparky like the cats do,” Katie remarked, padding into the kitchen. Her silver bracelets and earrings jingled musically when she walked.
Anya followed, stomach rumbling.
“Damn.” Marsh rubbed the scar on his head. “Halloween’s coming up, and all the crazies are out early.”
“Devil’s Night is just over two weeks away.”
Detroit was notorious for the night before Halloween, Devil’s Night. The criminal element appeared in full force to commit all manner of mischief and property damage; entire city blocks had burned in the seventies. The fires had waned in the late nineties, but the economic crises of recent years had created sufficient psychological fuel to reignite the blazes: unemployment, despair, and anger. Last year alone had seen more than thirty houses, several dozen cars, a post office, and a shopping mall burned to the ground.
Marsh frowned. “I hope this isn’t the firebug’s idea of practice.”
Anya stared through the glass. There was no sign that the firebug was interested in stopping himself. She would have to stop him before the burn unit got more crowded.
Anya wondered what Katie’s neighbors would have thought if they’d known that a witch lived in their little piece of suburbia. Small brick ranch houses lined Katie’s quiet street. Streetlamps and yard and porch lights revealed concrete yard ornaments standing guard over mulched flowerbeds and postage-stamp-sized yards. But this chunk of the middleclass American dream seemed to be slipping away, as Anya could see more and more FOR SALE signs cropping up like dandelions. On Katie’s street alone, there were five signs with paper flyers stacked in clear plastic sleeves, touting improvements to a market that didn’t exist. The grass was beginning to grow tall around those signs.
The witch in their midst was standing her ground, however. Katie’s porch light cheerily illuminated marigolds around the front step going to seed. Her door was decorated for Halloween with a wreath wrapped in orange and black ribbons. From the maple tree in the front yard, she’d hung bats and tiny ghosts. Anya was surprised that the neighborhood kids hadn’t run off with them, but perhaps the kids had moved away with their parents.
Katie appeared at the front door, and Anya could smell something delicious through the screen. She’d given up her baker’s uniform for an ankle-length tiered skirt and tank top, her long hair tied back in a ponytail. Her bare toes curled over the doorframe.
“C’mon in. Soup’s on.”
The instant Anya crossed the threshold of the witch’s domain, Sparky shivered with excitement. He peeled himself off Anya’s neck and leaped lightly to the floor. His spadeshaped head twisted right and left, peering intently under the fringed velvet couch, around the floor cushions, into the fireplace overhung with drying herbs smelling of lavender and rosemary.
Shining eyes peered from the hallway. Named after Vernors ginger ale and Faygo pop, both Katie’s cats were fully carbonated—shake ’em up, and they went off like rockets. And they were primed and ready for Sparky’s arrival.
Vern took the offensive. The gray-striped tabby circled behind the couch, stalking Sparky’s irresistibly lashing tail. Fay, a round calico cat, stealthily crept across the wooden floor in slow motion as Sparky nosed in the fireplace.
And all hell broke loose. Sparky’s head whipped around in delight as he caught sight of Fay. Fay scrambled backward on the slippery hardwood floor and skidded down the hallway. Sparky gave chase, short legs churning in the air. Vern leaped from behind the couch, startling Sparky. Sparky rolled, Vern pounced on his tail, and the two tumbled down the hall in a series of trills and snorts.
“I wish I could see Sparky like the cats do,” Katie remarked, padding into the kitchen. Her silver bracelets and earrings jingled musically when she walked.
Anya followed, stomach rumbling.
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