were family.
Chapter Five: A Stranger in Town
The next morning, I knew something was wrong because I was being watched by a man in a uniform that wasn’t really a uniform. He leaned against the door of his car and examined me with the calculating gaze of a professional. I kept my pace exactly the same, listening to Halfway waking up all around me as the day began in earnest. I’d juggled my schedule to allow an impromptu trip to the library, which would, in turn, determine whether or not I was taking a second unplanned trip into the woods. The man watching me was tall, rangy, and in his late middle years. He had a long, severe face, with liquid-brown eyes that captured every detail around him. I got an impression of nervous energy from him. He had an active mind, and a quick glance told me the hint of a smile played at his face. He didn’t appear unfriendly, just . . . interested.
I waited for traffic to thin, then stepped across the walk. The bustle of cars was already reaching a morning crescendo as tourists began their compulsive migration from one lake to the next. Why they didn’t simply settle at one place for a week and let the mountains capture their imagination was beyond me; their harried darting stole so much of the peace that the park could give. The brick walkway was already warming in the sun, and I knew it would be a bright day with little wind. I am trained to keep a weather eye alert at all times; there are forces at play that find storms irresistible. Unfortunately for me, many of these unseen forces find witches to be simply delicious, a fact that’s been drummed into my head since I cast my first spell. Even though my magic is pure, I’m still a target of opportunity for a great many beasties who consider all witches to be a threat of the highest order. I lifted my face to the growing sun and reconsidered; not just warm today, but perhaps even hot. That was good with me, I’d be ensconced in the library’s records room, pawing through the detritus of our local history. Air conditioning was a wonder. I don’t care what any crazed camping enthusiast says.
I’d made it three steps onto the other sidewalk when I saw the man’s head jerk sharply toward his car. The crackle of a radio drifted from the open window, an electric summons he could not ignore. He gave me one last look, shook his head slightly, and folded into the black, unadorned sedan without a second’s hesitation. If I had wavered at all on his occupation before, the car clinched it. He was a detective of some sort, which meant that was the second investigator in as many days to contact me. That’s exactly two more investigators than I’d met in my entire life up to this point, and I considered that fact to be a terrible harbinger for some unknown event that was lurking over the horizon. Don’t get me wrong, I’m naturally optimistic, but a practitioner of witchcraft knows that there is no such thing as an accident. Not around a witch.
The library is one of those buildings that might have been a house at one time, but has been pressed into government service out of sheer practicality. It’s a two-story white building, with gleaming black shutters and a real copper cupola. On top, a rooster eternally points his iron beak into the wind. The only sign is small, neatly lettered in black and gold, and the walkway is an absolute riot of flowers during the entire growing season. I was convinced that there were magical beings tending the walkway until I watched the assistant librarian, Mrs. Van Ryswick, spend an entire afternoon weeding, tending, and generally cosseting every plant on the grounds. Never mind the wee folk, Mrs. Van Ryswick is on the case , I thought, looking at the spill of color that threatened to cover the steps leading up to the doors.
Brendan Kilmeade saw me enter and waved. He’s around forty, whipcord thin, and relentlessly upbeat. In short, if you’re having a bad day, he can make it worse. His cheer
Chapter Five: A Stranger in Town
The next morning, I knew something was wrong because I was being watched by a man in a uniform that wasn’t really a uniform. He leaned against the door of his car and examined me with the calculating gaze of a professional. I kept my pace exactly the same, listening to Halfway waking up all around me as the day began in earnest. I’d juggled my schedule to allow an impromptu trip to the library, which would, in turn, determine whether or not I was taking a second unplanned trip into the woods. The man watching me was tall, rangy, and in his late middle years. He had a long, severe face, with liquid-brown eyes that captured every detail around him. I got an impression of nervous energy from him. He had an active mind, and a quick glance told me the hint of a smile played at his face. He didn’t appear unfriendly, just . . . interested.
I waited for traffic to thin, then stepped across the walk. The bustle of cars was already reaching a morning crescendo as tourists began their compulsive migration from one lake to the next. Why they didn’t simply settle at one place for a week and let the mountains capture their imagination was beyond me; their harried darting stole so much of the peace that the park could give. The brick walkway was already warming in the sun, and I knew it would be a bright day with little wind. I am trained to keep a weather eye alert at all times; there are forces at play that find storms irresistible. Unfortunately for me, many of these unseen forces find witches to be simply delicious, a fact that’s been drummed into my head since I cast my first spell. Even though my magic is pure, I’m still a target of opportunity for a great many beasties who consider all witches to be a threat of the highest order. I lifted my face to the growing sun and reconsidered; not just warm today, but perhaps even hot. That was good with me, I’d be ensconced in the library’s records room, pawing through the detritus of our local history. Air conditioning was a wonder. I don’t care what any crazed camping enthusiast says.
I’d made it three steps onto the other sidewalk when I saw the man’s head jerk sharply toward his car. The crackle of a radio drifted from the open window, an electric summons he could not ignore. He gave me one last look, shook his head slightly, and folded into the black, unadorned sedan without a second’s hesitation. If I had wavered at all on his occupation before, the car clinched it. He was a detective of some sort, which meant that was the second investigator in as many days to contact me. That’s exactly two more investigators than I’d met in my entire life up to this point, and I considered that fact to be a terrible harbinger for some unknown event that was lurking over the horizon. Don’t get me wrong, I’m naturally optimistic, but a practitioner of witchcraft knows that there is no such thing as an accident. Not around a witch.
The library is one of those buildings that might have been a house at one time, but has been pressed into government service out of sheer practicality. It’s a two-story white building, with gleaming black shutters and a real copper cupola. On top, a rooster eternally points his iron beak into the wind. The only sign is small, neatly lettered in black and gold, and the walkway is an absolute riot of flowers during the entire growing season. I was convinced that there were magical beings tending the walkway until I watched the assistant librarian, Mrs. Van Ryswick, spend an entire afternoon weeding, tending, and generally cosseting every plant on the grounds. Never mind the wee folk, Mrs. Van Ryswick is on the case , I thought, looking at the spill of color that threatened to cover the steps leading up to the doors.
Brendan Kilmeade saw me enter and waved. He’s around forty, whipcord thin, and relentlessly upbeat. In short, if you’re having a bad day, he can make it worse. His cheer
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