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Jules had woken up in a bad mood that morning, which only got worse when he passed the guest room on the second floor, just down the hall from his own room, and saw the door slowly opening. To his astonishment, his younger brother Milo stepped out into the hall wearing only his green boxers. When he saw Jules, he froze like a fox who’d been spotted slipping out of the henhouse.

  Crossing his arms, Jules smoothly blocked his path. “You’re not seriously going to wait until I demand an explanation, are you?” he asked when Milo tried to shrug, grin, and slip past him.

  “Well, uh…it’s actually pretty simple. There’s someone in my room so I slept in there.”

  “Someone in your…what? What are you talking about?”

  Jules listened, incredulous, as Milo related a barely believable tale of finding an injured cyclist at the edge of town and bringing him home so he could recover safely. On the other hand, knowing Milo, it was just crazy enough to be true.

  “He had nowhere to go, Jules. I thought I ought to help him out. After all, he’s hurt because of me. Giving him a place to sleep and breakfast this morning was really the least I could do.”

  Jules sniffed. “We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sue our asses off. You probably should have taken him to the hospital all the same. That way he couldn’t claim you were practicing medicine without a license. Besides, he wouldn’t have seen the house. Now that he knows we have money to spare, he’ll be looking for some kind of payout. Mark my words.”

  “No, no,” Milo hastened to assure him. “It isn’t like that at all—I mean, he isn’t like that. Besides, I made sure neither he nor his bike was in bad shape.” He paused, blushing, like he knew he’d said too much.

  For a moment Jules stared in appalled silence. Then he reached up and smacked his own forehead with his palm. “This just gets better and better. Please don’t tell me you used magic in front of a total stranger.”

  “I made sure he didn’t see what I was up to. Besides, with the Harvest Festival starting up soon, there’s going to be all kinds of spells flying around Warlock’s Cove, just like every other year. What harm could one more do?”

  “That’s exactly my point. I ran into Roman Agostino last night, and he told me there are at least three new covens in town this year—no telling who’s going to be out looking for trouble. For all you know, you just brought one of their spies into our house. Gods! What were you thinking, Milo? You’re lucky you didn’t wake up with a lizard tail or a beak!”

  “Oh, come on, Jules. Now you’re just being paranoid.”

  “No, I am not. Roman thinks there could be trouble. And based on what he told me, I’m inclined to agree with him.”

  “You’re agreeing with Roman? Well, there’s a first. Anyway, Thomas isn’t part of any coven. He didn’t see me work a spell and he doesn’t know anything about magic or the history of Warlock’s Cove. Trust me on that.”

  Jules raised a suspicious brow. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I just am. It would take too long to explain, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.” Milo shook his head in exasperation. “Roman Agostino! Hah! What does he know, anyway? And since when do you listen to him?”

  “Well, I can’t argue either those points,” Jules conceded. “All the same, it’s getting to the point where I feel as though I ought to lock you and Gage inside the house unless I can be there to supervise everything you do. I suppose our little brother is still cavorting with that bloodsucker?”

  “Yep. They were out together just last night.”

  “I’m going to talk to Roman about that, too. Something has to be done.” Jules scowled. He couldn’t abide vampires in general, but he was willing to look the other way as long as they minded their own business. No way in Hades was he about to allow one to infiltrate his family and seduce his younger brother, though. That was a disaster waiting to happen.

  “Roman won’t do anything. Don’t forget about him and Cyril.”

  “True. He is a weak jellyfish with a taste of his own for vampires. But I hope he will let our friend Nick know that we are watching him and he is not welcome around—and certainly not in—the Hawthorn family or any of its holdings.”

  Milo frowned, and Jules had the feeling he was going to lobby for their younger brother’s right to date whomever he wanted. Typical. Those two always stuck together. Still, Jules drew the line at vampires. On that point he would never budge.

  Sure enough, Milo shifted from foot to foot. “We should probably let Gage decide that, don’t you think? I mean, Nick has promised not to hurt him. I asked him myself.”

  “A promise from a vampire means nothing, as well you know. And Gage is too young and starry eyed to decide anything.” Impatient with the conversation, and eager to get downtown to talk to Roman, Jules waved an arm. “Now go and get dressed so you can tend to your guest. The last thing we need is him wandering through the house on his own. And you’d best get him out before Father finds out.”

  Milo scowled, probably nervous—and rightly so—about their father discovering what he had done, but Jules had nothing more to see. He swept past his brother and headed out the front door for the sidewalk. Colorful leaves blew through the iron gate that guarded his house while handful of dry ones skittered along the path like living things and crunched under his boot heels. The street was too narrow for cars, but he heard them farther on, traffic picking up as tourists flooded into town for the upcoming Harvest Festival.

  Even at this early hour, the streets were lively with pedestrians. Though most were ordinary humans, some of them, Jules could tell, were members of distant covens who had come to town for the festivities. One group he passed was earnestly debating the merits of alchemy in French, and on the next corner he was sure he caught snatches of Latin, the preferred tongue of master warlocks. A few of them, recognizing him or sensing his magical aura, smiled and offered him a comradely nod. He returned their greetings, hoping they read the discreet warning in his eyes and knew that the stewards of Warlock’s Cove would not tolerate trouble. Jules wasn’t much into casting spells himself, finding them generally unnecessary, but he had plenty of them in reserve if and when he needed one.

  As he passed Roman Agostino’s house on the opposite side of the square, he had a sense of being watched. Looking up, he spotted Roman’s mother, the fierce old sorceress, glaring down at him from an upper window. When their eyes met, Jules swept her a theatrical bow just before she banged the shutters closed.

  A few moments later, Roman himself hurried down the front steps.

  “My mother said you were looking in the windows,” Roman flashed Jules a smile to let him know he didn’t take the accusation seriously. He fell into step beside him, the two of them heading toward the center of the village.

  “Guilty as charged. I happened to raise my eyes while walking. Good thing, too, as I suspect she was about to pour boiling oil over me. I trust self-preservation isn’t yet forbidden in this village, even for Hawthorns?”

  “I’m sorry about her. She’s convinced you’re just waiting for the best time to make trouble.”

  “And do you believe that as well?” Jules asked bluntly. He saw the tips of Roman’s ears redden just a bit beneath his curly dark hair. He pushed aside the slightly protective feeling that came over him when he thought about what Roman must go through, living with his dragon-like mother.

  “I would hope not, Jules.”

  His tentative tone of voice made Jules laugh. “Just what are you afraid we’ll do?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Roman confessed. “And that’s sort of the problem, you see.”

  “Well, nothing to worry about today. I’m glad we ran into each other, though. You see, I want to talk to you.”

  Roman sighed. “Not Gage and Nick again.”

  “The same.”

  “I patrol here, Jules. I can’t go around interfering in relationships between consenting adults. And as much as you might not want to admit it, Gage is an adult now.”

 
“Not until he’s twenty-one, at least not in my eyes. And even then, I’ll certainly have plenty to say about him cavorting with bloodsuckers. Besides, I don’t see why you can’t take a stand. You’re the law around here, Agostino, at least for our kind. Use your authority for something useful.”

  “In this case, the answer is still no. Sorry. Nick knows he’s not allowed to bite anyone without consent or he’ll be expelled from the college. At that point, as a trustee you can take care of his transgression yourself. As far as his romance with Gage, you’ll have to wait until they break up on their own. If Nick is as horrible as you say, that shouldn’t take long. And if you’re wrong, and he’s not so bad after all, you have no right to come between them anyway.”

  Jules grumbled in frustration. His fists clenched at his sides. Roman Agostino was as impossible as ever. He should have known he would never see reason. “This is because you once dated a bloodsucker, isn’t it?”

  “Let’s not get into this in public,” Roman pleaded as they stepped out onto the main drag. Jules saw how discreetly he scanned both sides of the street, taking in the groups of visiting witches and warlocks as well as the ordinary human tourists to make sure no one was easing even one toe out of line. Much as Jules had no use for the Agostinos—what self-respecting Hawthorn did, after all?—he had to admit Roman took his duties seriously and was good at them.

  “Speaking of trouble brewing, what’s your take on this year’s crowd?” Jules ventured. “Anyone in particular we should keep an eye out for?”

  “Nothing so far. I haven’t heard any rumors, either, which constitute my regular source of information. It just seems to me we have a higher influx than usual, and that always makes me worried.”

  Jules nodded. “The festival is growing, no doubt about that. Just the same, most of the people who show up are poseurs or outright fakes, here to make a buck telling fortunes and so on. They don’t bother me that much. It’s the ones who stay undercover we’ve got to worry about.”

  “The ones I have to worry about, you mean. I’ve been watching and listening, but there’s nothing I can do unless someone makes a move. At least three covens are in town, plus a number of mavericks. So far, I’ve sensed only low-level spells—mostly pranks between friends—and caught the scent of a love potion coming from a travel mug. If that’s the extent of this year’s adventures, I can handle it.”

  “I don’t know.” Jules shook his head and clenched his fists at his sides. “There’s just something in the air. I can feel it. Something’s brewing—and I don’t mean some lame potion made of witch’s tears and baking soda.”

  “Yes…I’ve felt it too,” Roman confessed. “All I can do is keep my eyes—and my mind—open. I hope you’ll report it if you do stumble across something a little more concrete. Better not to try and handle it yourself. That will only make things worse.”

  “I’ll report it,” Jules said grudgingly. “But don’t get in my way if I decide to follow up on my own. I have a responsibility to my family and the college, and I don’t intend to shirk it just so you won’t have to deal with professional embarrassment.”

  “I can assure you I have no intention of being embarrassed about anything. My point is the same as yours, if you’d stop and think about it for a moment. We may not care for one another, but we still have to work together for the sake of the town. Surely in the twenty-first century we’ve grown beyond the petty conflicts that absorbed our ancestors before they had the Internet to keep them occupied.”

  Their steps took them past the village bookshop, Brimstone Books. The front window was newly decorated with banners and merchandise, including new hardcovers of interest to the occult-loving crowds strolling by. A large poster advertised an upcoming lecture and booksigning with author Osgood Price, whose Bay of Spells – 18th-Century Covens of the New England Seacoast sat prominently displayed between two pumpkins and a row of black patchouli votive candles. The photo on the back of the book jacket, which was reproduced on the poster as well, showed a man in his late 50s or early 60s, nattily dressed with short gray hair and a white goatee.

  “I’ll bet Weyland’s doing good business this week,” Roman commented, glancing at the array of esoteric merchandise he’d spread out. The shop wasn’t open yet, but its young owner, Weyland Stockbridge, was already inside, bustling around while he got ready for the day’s customers. Through the plate glass storefront, Jules watched him dart back and forth with a broom in one hand and a dustrag in the other. He might be a little on the geeky side, but he was ambitious—Jules had to give him that. Not like the twenty-something slackers who turned Warlock’s Cove into an arena for their drunken fistfights and a dump for their empty beer bottles and litter. Weyland, who came from a prominent warlock family in Boston but had no apparent powers himself, had been running the bookstore on his own for three years now and was apparently making a reasonable success of it.

  “No doubt. Like I said before, no shortage of wide-eyed pretenders walking around these days. Tourists snap this stuff up.” He paused to read the details of the poster. “Still, I guess churning this pablum out keeps the academic types off the streets.”

  “I don’t know,” Roman hedged. “It looks kind of interesting. Might be something about our ancestors in there.”

  “The Hawthorns have never been part of a coven, and you know it,” Jules sniffed. “We’re perfectly content to go our own way, whether the less powerful families around here like it or not.” He took another look at the window. “I’m sure Mr. Price’s account is about as accurate as the rest of its kind—no more, no less.”

  They had moved only a few feet from the bookstore when another man in a black windbreaker and long-billed Sox cap approached the same window they had just left. Jules peered over his shoulder as the man stuffed both hands in his jacket pockets and leaned forward to examine the poster in the window. He opened his mouth to say something to Roman on another matter entirely, but paused when he saw Roman turn stiff and silent.

  “There’s a spell in the air,” he said without meeting Jules’ eyes. He stood in place, nostrils flaring, his face taut with concentration as he tried to determine its direction and content.

  As he stared at Roman, Jules felt it too—a sort of tingling sensation in the crisp autumn breeze, along with an elusive, spicy scent. As to who was pitching it, he couldn’t be sure. Every square yard of the street was occupied by at least one practicing witch, wizard, or warlock.

  “What kind of spell is it?” he pressed Roman, though he doubted he would get a straight answer even if Roman knew enough to form one. That was just the way the Agostinos operated, he remembered. They kept knowledge to themselves, even about inconsequential things. They had some idea that secrecy gave them power. Annoying, the whole lot of them.

  As he expected, Roman just shook his head, closing his eyes as he tried to absorb and counteract the spell. Before Jules could say anything else, a moan erupted from behind them.

  The man who’d been looking in the bookstore window was on the ground, writhing as though he’d fallen into a fit of seizure. His arms flailed and froth bubbled out of his lips as his head thrashed from side to side.

  “Oh, my god!” someone screamed from across the street. “Call 911! Hurry!”

  In the ensuing pandemonium, with some people hurrying closer to get a better look and others hurrying away in fear, Jules gripped Roman’s arm. The muscles had gone rigid.

  “Do something,” he urged.

  “I am!” Roman bit out the words. Sweat trickled down his forehead. “I’m countering the spell with one of my own. It’s a strong one—strong, fast, and deadly. But I think I’ve managed to deflect it.”

  As a small crowd gathered, the door to Brimstone Books flew open and Weyland stepped out. When he saw the scene in front of him—and in front of his display window—his face turned pale.

  “What’s happening? Oh, no! Roman, do something—and quickly! I’ve been talking up this booksigning all week!”

 
“Booksigning? What’s he talking about?” Jules asked, bewildered.

  Roman pointed down at the man on the sidewalk, still twitching and moaning. The ballcap had rolled away, leaving his face exposed—and easily recognized.

  “It’s him,” Roman said. “The author on the poster—Osgood Price.”