Prologue
They say Satan has a sense of humor. That may explain why my life is such a joke.
- Gwen Goode, lamenting recent events
“Whoa. Your aura is so stormy, they’re going to put out a Nor’Easter watch for the entire Eastern Seaboard.”
The statement greeted me the moment I stepped through the front door of The Gallows, the cafe-slash-bookstore-slash-occult-shop I owned and operated in the heart of downtown Salem, Massachusetts. It was delivered with typical airy nonchalance by Henrietta “Hetti” Charles, the barista-slash-cashier-slash-mystical-hobbyist I’d hired on last spring to help out around the place when the crush of magic-obsessed tourists and latte-nursing locals became too much to handle on my own.
I took her words in stride, unfazed by either the fact that Hetti claimed to see my aura, or that said aura was supposedly the color of dark clouds. It was barely 9AM and already my day had gone to Hell in a hand-basket. Why in a hand-basket instead of something more time efficient, say, a Maglev train or a Maybach, I had no earthly idea. Then again, I wasn’t an expert on sub-dimensional travel.
I flipped the CLOSED sign to OPEN before the heavy oak door swung shut at my back with a soft tinkle of bells.
“Good morning to you too, Hetti.”
“Oh. Right.Morning.”
She grinned at me as she came around the espresso bar, but even an uncharacteristic flash of her mega-white teeth could not erase the crease of worry between her furrowed brows — one of which was pierced with a thick silver bolt. Hetti was a goth girl through and through. Not because it was trendy or because ‘90s grunge was making a comeback on red carpets and in glossy magazine spreads. She was genuinely cool, the kind of cool that never aspired to be mainstream.
She dressed in killer vintage — mostly black — clothes, changed her hair color every other month, and lined her light brown eyes with a hand so heavy, I was surprised she could keep her lids open. If only she could master basic pleasantries instead of constantly insulting our customers, she’d be the perfect employee. Alas, when asked, she was more likely to give a glare and a hair toss than dispense proper directions to the nearby Witch Museum.
She stopped before me, arms crossed over her chest. Her gaze didn’t focus on my face so much as the space around it, as if she could see something in the air invisible to the naked eye.
“I hate to break it to you, boss, but you’ve got some seriously bad juju swirling.”
I heaved a sigh. (A heavy one.) I didn’t strictly believe in auras or juju or witchy woo-woo, but the supernatural was so much a part of the daily fabric of life in Salem that even if you weren’t a true believer, you didn’t let mention of it in casual conversation ruffle your feathers. It was as common to hear about a ghost sighting or otherworldly encounter as it was the daily weather or the score of the most recent Red Sox game.
“Helloooo. Earth to Gwendolyn. This is your captain speaking.”
“Sorry.” I jolted, realizing I’d spaced out. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you were okay.” Hetti gnawed on her bottom lip, smudging her dark purple lipstick. “Areyou okay?”
Was I okay?
In the past few days, I’d been verbally accosted, physically threatened, kissed, kidnapped, and accused of murder. I’d also been screwed — thoroughly, mind-blowingly, bone-meltinglyscrewed— within an inch of my sanity by a man I was ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent sure I detested with every fiber of my being. On top of that, one of my other employees had gone AWOL, and my half-grown-out bangs were doing an unforgivable flippy-outty thing at the ends that made me curse the day I’d taken the shears to them. (I blamed girl’s night — and the bottle of tequila consumed therein — for hindering my better judgment, along with my best friend Florence, a.k.a. Flo, whose wholly unsound assurances that they’d look quote ‘chic as fuck’ unquote had been an act of domestic terrorism in the sober light of day.)
So, no.
I was not okay. I was so not okay, I couldn’t even summon the words to describe the depths of my not-okayness.
“Not to make your morning worse or anything,” Hetti continued in a hesitant voice, tucking a lock of purple hair behind one ear. “But that detective is here again. He’s waiting for you in your office. And, boss, he doesnotlook happy. His aura is even darker than yours.”
At this news, I paled as all the blood drained out of my face. I reached out a hand to steady myself against the espresso bar. “Did he say why he’s here?”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “No. But…”
“Butwhat,Hetti?”
“Well… you know that dead body they found? The one with… uh… the knife through the heart?” Her eyes darted away, unable to meet mine as she reluctantly forced out the rest. “I’m pretty sure they think you’re the one who stuck it there.”
I couldn’t see my aura, but I was relatively certain it darkened from Impending Nor’easter to Category Five Hurricane on the stormy scale. Hetti took one look at it and scurried behind the espresso bar to hide.
Hellfire.
If I actually believed in such things, I’d say I was cursed.
* * *