1. I Fortunately Know a Little Magic

Seagulls dove and wheeled over the roaring ocean. Spray misted the air as I closed my eyes and breathed it in: the salt, the pine, the hot dude next to me.

"Did you remember to send that demon your lemon bar recipe?" Declan, a tall, bearded, broad-shouldered, all-around-jaw-dropping werewolf, jogged beside me down the steps to Lands End in San Francisco, holding my gloved hand.

I'm Arwyn, the sea wicche of Monterey, and I was on a demon fact-finding mission. "Of course I did. I even sent a video of me making them." I didn't want him thinking I'd reneged on a deal. "In fact, I sent a few more recipes to butter him up for tonight."

"Good thinking." Glancing down the stairs, he ushered me off the path, out of the line of tourists.

The sun was setting over the water, waves splashing on the rocks below. We were at the spot where the ocean met the bay. We waited for a large family to pass us on their way up. It wouldn't do to disappear into a magical bookstore and bar right in front of nonmagical folk.

I pulled out my phone and took a panoramic photo. The gloves I wore had connective threads at the fingertips so I could use touch screen devices. You might be wondering, Arwyn, why not just take off the gloves? Well, I'll tell you. I'm a wicche, specifically a Cassandra. Our gift is prophesy. I wear gloves because I also have a—I guess we'll call it a gift—for psychometry, meaning I glean information by touching things.

On the one hand, useful. On the other, a nightmare for most normal human interactions, especially dating.

After the family passed us, I put my phone away and Declan grabbed my hand once more. "I'm hanging on to you," he said as the stairs turned. "If her wards try to block me, I'm hoping you can drag me through with you."

"She said she'd tell the wards you were coming." She being Sam Quinn, the owner-operator of The Slaughtered Lamb Bookstore and Bar and a newly discovered cousin of mine. Sam was part Quinn wolf, like Declan, and part Corey wicche, like me.

Between one step and the next, the glorious purpling sunset and crashing waves disappeared and we were in a dark stairwell, lit by flickering wall sconces. I experienced a moment of panic and realized Declan must have too because we'd both clutched the other's hand hard.

"I guess it worked." The rumble of Declan's voice in the dim light put me at ease.

Within a few steps, I heard the low murmur of conversation. I pulled up short two steps later, though, when I heard growling.

Grinning, Declan urged me along. "It's a dog."

Light from the bar hit the landing below and there we saw a black wolfhound growling up at us—well, Declan really. Clive, Sam's vampire husband, had mentioned they had a puppy.

"Fergus! Don't growl at customers. That's not polite puppy behavior." At the sound of the woman's voice, the dog sat and stopped growling. Mostly. He raised his lip on the right side of his muzzle—away from the bar—showing us half his teeth.

Ha. I loved the little shit already. When Declan and I reached the landing, we both sat on the stairs and waited to pass inspection. Fergus, which was apparently his name, leaned forward and sniffed at us both. Declan got a wary look and a low growl as the dog positioned himself between us, his back to me, protecting me from the werewolf.

Declan shook his head as I laughed and kissed the top of the pooch's head.

"See?" I murmured, getting up. "He knows you're sketchy." Fergus kept to my side down the remaining steps and into the bar. Holy—I'd seen it in my visions, but those had been pale representations of the real thing.

Waves splashed against the wall of glass, the sky going indigo over the North Bay mountains. The sea level was about five feet above the barroom floor. Kelp bobbed and fish slid through the dark water.

The voices around me were so much white noise. I skirted around tables until I was in front of the window. I knew I was surrounded by wicches. I recognized the buzz of their magic. As I didn't feel hostility from them, though, I sat on the floor, placing my hands on the glass. Almost at once, a tentacle reached up from below and slapped the window, its suckers separated from my hand by a half foot of aquarium-grade glass.

"Hello, you," I whispered. Three more tentacles hit the window as she rose from under the bar. Resting my forehead against the cold, slick surface, I watched the octopus undulating in the waves, one rectangular eye on me. "You I shall name…Violet." The gray tentacles turned a lovely purple. She approved.

Two seals swam in loops, each coming a bit closer with every swoop. "Thank you for the welcome." They surfaced, barking their greetings and making me laugh.

I saw movement out in the depths but couldn't make out what was there. Chairs scraped the floor around me as people moved away. The bar had gone silent. Why—oh, now I saw. My focus had been too narrow.

Violet slipped down below The Slaughtered Lamb again and the seals shot off toward the Golden Gate Bridge.

"What are you doing out there? It's late in the season for you." A gray whale, fifty feet long, swam close to the glass, his huge black eye on me. I felt magic gathering around me, so I held up a hand to the wicches behind me who were readying spells. "Don't."

He moved closer. I returned my hands to the glass and whispered, "Safe travels, my friend." Breaching the surface, he flipped onto his side, swamping the window with a tidal wave of water. Vocalizing, he made a croaking sound that was dangerously close to a laugh. Cheeky bastard.

"As you were," I said, standing up. "He was just passing by and detoured to say hi." I went to Declan, who stared out the window in awe, Fergus held under his arm. "I want glass panels in the new deck so I can see down into the water."

He shook his head, breaking the spell. "You can just look over the edge of the deck. And Cecil and Wilbur might not appreciate you spying on them." The gangly pup, who was all legs and huge paws, wriggled, so Declan put him down.

Hmm. That was a good point. "New thought: glass panels, but I paint the bottom so you see tentacles that are pushing up out of the water to crush the Sea Wicche art gallery."

"I can't believe that just happened." Sam, The Slaughtered Lamb owner and recently discovered Corey cousin, was behind the bar. She had long brown hair braided down her back, leaving her lovely face unframed. She had Corey green eyes and a cleft in her chin that must have come from the Quinn side of her family tree. Shaking her head, she asked, "What can I get you two?"

"Beer. Whatever you have on tap." Declan took the empty stool in front of her. He'd thought he was the last of the storied Quinn line of werewolves. Like me, he'd found out that he, too, had a relative, one who had been hidden most of her life.

Taking the seat beside Declan, I said, "We've worked it out. Declan here is your uncle. And I'm fine with water."

Sam grinned, and it lit up the bar. There was something about her that made you feel safe and welcome. I couldn't explain it. "Was your dad Alexander?" she asked. At Declan's nod, she said, "I'm his son Michael's daughter." Shaking her head, she glanced over at her ridiculously handsome vampire husband, Clive. "This is my Uncle Declan."

He ran a hand down her back. "So I heard." He had a beautiful English accent, chiseled features, thick dark blond hair, and gray eyes that went soft whenever he looked at his wife. I'd seen him in a rage, eyes black, fangs descended, so I knew just how terrifying he could be. Now, though, here with Sam, he was a different man.

"That," he said, gesturing toward the window, "was the most extraordinary thing I've seen in my very long life. Do whales often drop by your gallery in Monterey?"

"Depends," I said, tipping my head back and forth. "If it's their migratory season and I'm out on the deck, I often get a few visitors. Not close like this, though. The water's too shallow for gray whales right next to the gallery. They're maybe fifty yards away. I've taken some great shots of them, though. Once the renovation is complete, I'll have a wall for my photographs."

"Oh," Sam said, like a thought had just occurred to her. Clive smiled and nodded, almost as though he'd heard her thought. "Can you do a portrait of Fergus for us?"

I glanced around the bar, looking for him, and found him once again on the landing, keeping a suspicious eye on all of us. I took out my phone, fiddled with the settings, and slid off the stool to take a few. "I'll see what I can do now. If I don't get anything good, we can schedule a session."

Sam bounced on the balls of her feet. "Perfect." She looked past me into the bookstore. "Fyr?" she called.

Out of the bookstore strode the most Thor-looking mountain of a man I'd ever seen. He had long blond hair, dragon-green eyes—you know what? Just picture Thor and you've got it.

"Can you watch the bar?" Sam asked Thor. "We need to go back and have a chat with our guests."

He nodded, grabbed a bar towel, and folded it into his waistband. It was nothing, the most basic of movements, but most of the people in the bar—including me—couldn't tear our eyes away from him.

Fingers snapped in my face, and I startled, finding Declan staring at me, eyebrows raised. Oops. I shrugged. It wasn't my fault the gorgeous man walked in front of me. I'd been minding my own business, framing dog photos. I can't be held accountable for noticing gods walking among us.

I caught up with Sam. The kitchen was remarkable. Her countertops were like my floors, but her concrete was stained the blue-green of shallow water. The dark floor gave just a bit with each step. "Cork?" I asked.

Dave, Sam's half-demon cook, looked over his shoulder and nodded. He wasn't wearing the glamour I'd seen him in, that of a tall, muscular, bald Black man. How freeing The Slaughtered Lamb must be. No humans could get in, so supernaturals could be themselves. In Dave's case, he was still tall, muscular, and bald, but he was now also red-skinned and black-eyed.

"Yeah," he replied. "Cork flooring is easier on the knees and feet." He tilted his head toward the counter to his left. "Wolf, I put a cheesesteak aside for you, if you want it."

"Thanks." Declan grabbed the plate and followed Sam through a dark doorway. I paused, taking off my backpack and pulling out a gift cocooned in Bubble Wrap.

"Thank you for meeting with me again. As a token, I made Maggie a little something for your garden."

Dave wiped his hands on a dish towel and then tossed it onto the nearby island. Leaning against the counter, he studied what was in my hand. "This is for Maggie?"

I nodded.

"Can I open it?"

"Please do." Hopefully, he'd like it too. "It's glass," I warned. I didn't want it broken before it made it to her.

He unwrapped an eight-inch-long glass hedgehog. I'd remembered he'd said his girlfriend wanted a pet hedgehog but couldn't have one, as they'd been living in an apartment. Now that he'd rescued her from a couple of demons, they were looking for a house with a backyard.

"I'd never tried to make a hedgehog before." I thought it had turned out well, though. I'd pulled and snipped the ball of hot amorphous glass, shaping sparkling brown quills, and I'd made the sweet, tapered face a color somewhere between tan and pink. When Dave came close to smiling, I thought my payment had been accepted.

"Go on," he said, waving me toward the door.

Before stepping through, I looked back and saw him gently placing it on his desk. The world went dark again, like when we'd went through the ward on the stairs, and then…oh, it was an apartment. The living room was cozy, saddle brown walls, mahogany wood, and beautiful green leather couch and chairs. They'd moved one of the wooden chairs from the bar in as well.

Declan was sitting on the couch, chatting with Sam and Clive, who were in the matching chairs. Declan patted the cushion beside him. Instead of sitting, though, I went to a painting hanging on their wall.

It was Paris, unmistakably Paris at night, the Eiffel Tower lit up in the distance. This wasn't the painting of a street artist cranking them out for the tourists. This packed an emotional punch. The colors, the brushstrokes, the dreamy quality of the moon glowing behind snow clouds…

"Do you like it?" Clive asked. I hadn't seen or heard him move. If I thought too much about it, he'd scare me, and I didn't want to be scared of him.

"I do." I scanned the corner for a signature and recognized the name. He was a master.

"It's the view from our hotel room balcony," he said. "We went to Paris for our honeymoon."

"Clive hired the artist and then booked him into the suite we'd stayed in so he could get the view exactly right," Sam explained. "I love it so much. Sometimes I just sit here, fall into the painting, and visit Paris in my memories."

Dave walked in a moment later, carrying a plate of lemon squares, placing them on the coffee table. Clive and I took our seats.

"Well?" I asked the grumpy demon. I hoped he was happy with the recipe results.

"You tell me." He handed me a pair of chopsticks before sitting on the wooden barroom chair.

He'd remembered. Gloves made eating finger foods tricky. I used the chopsticks to pick up a lemon bar and place it on a napkin before using them again to pluck off a piece and pop it into my mouth. Mmm. "They're delicious."

He waited, clearly wanting a better critique than that.

"This is a taste thing, okay? I like a little more lemon zest in the shortbread crust and sprinkle a little less sugar on the dough before you bake." I turned the bar over to study the bottom. "I'd go another minute, maybe even two before you combine the crust with the lemon filling."

Nodding, he crossed his powerful arms over his chest. "Okay, good."

Declan put his empty plate down and grabbed a lemon bar. He took a bite, mmmed, and said, "Excellent."

Sam took a bar and curled her legs up under her. "So," she said, glancing between me and Dave, "what questions do you have for our former resident of Hell?"

I took another bite and then put the napkin with the bar on the coffee table. "How do we find and stop a sorcerer?"

Dave blew a gust of air through his nose. "Good luck. We were hunting our own for quite a while. I can tell you that sorcery bleeds over into the mundane world, so sometimes you can track the incidents of bloodshed or death to the sorcerer's doorstep."

"Yeah," I said. "We've been seeing that. The detectives I spoke with said violent crimes have been getting worse and more frequent for a decade or more, but they didn't say anything about a specific area where it was happening."

He nodded. "Which tells us this isn't a new arrangement. See if you can get them to map it for you anyway. You may notice a pattern."

"According to you guys and my mom," I began, "my aunt—the sorcerer causing you all those problems—trained Calliope, my cousin and our latest sorcerer. Mom says Cal began studying with my aunt when she was young, at maybe eight or ten years old, so seventeen-ish years ago."

"And you never saw any black in her aura?" he asked.

When I shook my head, he paused, staring into the middle distance. "So why is there no black and why haven't there been violent crimes near her the last seventeen years? Hmm. Has she changed locations, moved closer to Monterey?"

I shook my head. "She's always lived with her parents."

"Ask your police to check nearby communities. She doesn't practice sorcery in the bedroom of her parents' home. She has to have a workshop someplace where she has privacy and isolation. It wouldn't do to have neighbors hear chanting in the middle of the night. Maybe also check records of properties owned by Coreys. She needs a place to work that isn't too far so she can be there when a family member calls for her."

I reached into my backpack, pulled out a small notebook, like the one Detective Hernández used, and began jotting down what we needed to do.

"I haven't worked with a sorcerer in a while," he continued, "but I did it for a very long time. Most of the wicches I worked with tried to hide the marks of sorcery. I've only known of one, though, who was able to do it."

He scratched his jaw, thinking. "He was a Corey. I'm almost positive. Maybe four or five hundred years ago. Maybe Ireland." He shook his head as though trying to jostle his memories into place.

"I didn't work with him, but I remember hearing mumbles about a spell that could wipe an aura clean. I know who your cousin's demon is now and I don't believe he was the one working with that sorcerer either." He shrugged one large shoulder. "My guess is there is a Corey spell, maybe even a black magic grimoire with many spells, that's passed down from one sorcerer to the next."

As soon as he said the words, I felt the truth of them. "That may be why there are so damned many of them in my family tree."

"Our family tree," Sam said, pointing to herself, Dave, and me.

"Yeah, our." I knew that should have made me feel better. I wasn't alone in all this. Unfortunately, hunting down and stopping Calliope felt very much as though it had been laid squarely on my shoulders.