Dead Witch Walking. Ким Харрисон

they turn it into the baddest haunted house on either side of the river. There are swing sets, aboveground pools, bikes on the lawns, and cars parked on the curb. It takes a sharp eye to notice that the flowers are arranged in antiblack magic hexes and the basement windows are often cemented over. The savage, dangerous reality blooms only in the depths of the city, where people gather and emotions run rampant: amusement parks, dance clubs, bars, churches. Never our homes.

      And it’s quiet—even at night when all its denizens are up. It was always the stillness that a human noticed first, setting them on edge and sending their instincts into full swing.

      I found my tension easing as I stared out the window and counted the black, light-proof blinds. The quiet of the neighborhood seemed to soak into the bus. Even the few people riding had grown still. There was just something about the Hollows that said “Home.”

      My hair swung forward as the bus stopped. On edge, I jerked when the guy behind me bumped my shoulder as he got up. Boots clattering, he hastened down the steps and into the sun. The driver told me my stop was next, and I stood as the nice man trundled down a side street to give me curb service. I stepped down into the patchy shade, standing with my arms wrapped around the box and trying not to breathe the fumes as the bus drove away. It disappeared around a corner, taking its noise and the last vestiges of humanity with it.

      Slowly it grew quiet. The sound of birds drifted into existence. Somewhere close there were kids calling—no, kids screaming—and the barking of a dog. Multicolored chalk runes decorated the cracked sidewalk, and a forgotten doll with fangs painted on it smiled blankly at me. There was a small stone church across the street, its steeple rising far above the trees.

      I turned on a heel, eyeing what Ivy had rented for us: a one-story house that could easily be converted to an office. The roof looked new, but the chimney mortar was crumbling. There was grass out front, looking like it should have been cut last week. It even had a garage, the door gaping open to show a rusting mower.

      It will do, I thought as I opened the gate to the chain-link fence enclosing the yard. An old black man sat on the porch, rocking the afternoon away. Landlord? I mused, smiling. I wondered if he was a vamp, since he wore dark glasses against the late afternoon sun. He was scruffy looking despite being clean-shaven, his tightly curled hair going gray around the temples. There was mud on his shoes and a hint of it on the knees of his blue jeans. He looked worn-out and tired—put away like an unwanted plow horse who was still eager for one more season.

      He set a tall glass on the porch railing as I came up the walk. “Don’t want it,” he said as he took off his glasses and tucked them in a shirt pocket. His voice was raspy.

      Hesitating, I peered up at him from the bottom of the stairs. “Beg pardon?”

      He coughed, clearing his throat. “Whatever you’re selling out of that box. Don’t want it. I’ve got enough curse candles, candy, and magazines. And I don’t have the money for new siding, water purifier, or a sunroom.”

      “I’m not selling anything,” I said. “I’m your new tenant.”

      He sat up straighter, somehow making himself look even more unkempt. “Tenant? Oh, you mean across the street.”

      Confused, I shifted my box to my other hip. “This isn’t 1597 Oakstaff, is it?”

      He chuckled. “That’s across the street.”

      “Sorry to have bothered you.” I turned to leave, hoisting the box higher.

      “Yep,” the man said, and I paused, not wanting to be rude. “The numbers are backward on this street. Odd numbers on the wrong side of the road.” He smiled, creasing the wrinkles around his eyes. “But they didn’t ask me when they put the numbers up.” He extended his hand. “I’m Keasley,” he said, waiting for me to climb the stairs and take his hand.

      Neighbors, I thought, rolling my eyes as I went up the stairs. Best to be nice. “Rachel Morgan,” I said, pumping his arm once. He beamed, patting my shoulder in a fatherly fashion. The strength of his grip was surprising, as was the scent of redwood coming from him. He was a witch, or at the very least a warlock. Not comfortable with his show of familiarity, I took a step back as he released me. It was cooler on his porch, and I felt tall under the low ceiling.

      “Are you friends with the vamp?” he said, gesturing across the street with his chin.

      “Ivy? Yeah.”

      He nodded slowly, as if it were important. “Both of you quit together?”

      I blinked. “News travels fast.”

      He laughed. “Yup. It does at that.”

      “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to get spelled on your front porch and take you with me?”

      “No.” He leaned back in his rocker and picked up his glass. “I took that one off you.” He held up a tiny self-stick amulet between his finger and thumb. As my lips parted, he dropped it into his glass. What I thought had been lemonade foamed as the spell dissolutioned. Yellow smoke billowed, and he waved his hand dramatically. “Oooh doggies, that’s a nasty one.”

      Saltwater? He grinned at my obvious shock. “That guy on the bus …” I stammered as I backed off the porch. The yellow sulfur eddied down the stairs as if trying to find me.

      “Nice meeting you, Ms. Morgan,” the man said I stumbled onto the walk and into the sun. “A vamp and pixy might keep you alive a few days, but not if you aren’t more careful.”

      My eyes turned to look down the street at the long gone bus. “The guy on the bus …”

      Keasley nodded. “You’re right in that they won’t try anything when there’s a witness, leastwise, not at first, but you have to watch for the amulets that won’t trigger till you’re alone.”

      I had forgotten about delayed spells. And were was Denon getting the money? My face scrunched up as I figured it out; Ivy’s bribe money was paying for my death threat. Swell.

      “I’m home all day,” Keasley was saying. “Come on over if you want to talk. I don’t get out much anymore. Arthritis.” He slapped his knee.

      “Thanks,” I said. “For—finding that charm.”

      “My pleasure,” he said, his gaze on the ceiling of the porch and the lazily spinning fan.

      My stomach was knotting as I made my way back to the sidewalk. Was the entire city aware I had quit? Maybe Ivy had talked to him.

      I felt vulnerable in the empty street. Edgy, I crossed the road looking for house numbers. “Fifteen ninety-three,” I muttered, glancing at the small yellow house with two bikes tangled on the lawn. “Sixteen hundred and one,” I said, looking the other way to the well-kept brick home. My lips pursed. The only thing between them was that stone church. I froze. A church?

      A harsh buzzing zipped past my ears, and I instinctively ducked.

      “Hi, Rache!” Jenks came to a hovering halt just out of my reach.

      “Damn it, Jenks!” I shouted, warming as I heard the old man laugh. “Don’t do that!”

      “Got your stuff set,” Jenks said. “I made him put everything up on blocks.”

      “It’s a church,” I said.

      “No shit, Sherlock. Wait until you see the garden.”

      I stood unmoving. “It’s a church.”

      Jenks hovered, waiting for me. “There’s a huge yard in back. Great for parties.”

      “Jenks,” I said through gritted teeth. “It’s a church. The backyard is a graveyard.”

      “Not all of it.” He began weaving impatiently. “And it’s not a church anymore. It’s been a day care for the last two years. No one’s been buried there since the Turn.”

      I