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  “I’ll say. The roses are wonderful. They’re English roses, aren’t they? Old style?” My grandfather had been a rose fan, once upon a time before his emphysema had cut short his gardening career. He’d taught me well . . . though he probably thought I’d heard not a word at the time.

  She seemed pleased that I knew the difference. “Of course. No French floozies here in my garden. Blowzy petals and cheap perfume billowing everywhere? I don’t think so. This is a place of worship. These English ladies are elegant and refined and restrained. Perfect, don’t you think?”

  “They are beautiful,” I agreed. “My boss would love them.”

  “Oh? Is she a gardening enthusiast?” she asked with hope in her voice in the way that all green thumbs perked up at the first mention of a fellow devotee.

  “A nature lover in the truest sense of the word.” That was even more spot-on than Mrs. Clark would ever know, I thought as I pictured Liss in her high priestess garb, barefoot in the wooded glen in which she worshipped her beloved Goddess. “And yes, she loves gardens. Not to mention, she hails from the UK, so this place would be like a taste of home for her.”

  A beatific smile lit up her face. “Well, then. You must bring her by some day. Feel free to, my dear, any time you like. Gardens are meant to be enjoyed by those who understand and appreciate them.”

  We both fell silent for the moment, each in our own personal mind space. A perfectly lovely, soothing, companionable silence.

  Which was broken only moments later by the drift of voices from the older branch of the soon-to-be “Y for Yahweh” expansion.

  “No. No! I won’t. Not again.” A voice, male tones, but indistinguishable at this distance.

  I froze, instinctively clutching my pendulum tighter, and trained my ears toward the building. I know, it was probably obvious, but I wasn’t apologizing. If the last year had taught me anything, it was that it paid to stay aware of one’s surroundings in this day and age—you never know when something untoward or even abnormal might happen. A girl can’t be too careful. Not around here. Not lately. Besides, my older companion might appear to be absorbed in brushing away the mud from her hand trowel, but I knew without a doubt that she was listening as closely as I was. Her face had gone pale, her eyes darting surreptitiously toward the building, then back toward the tool in her hand.

  All the windows in the wing had been opened to catch any stray breeze; the voice could have come from any of them. Many of these older churches still weren’t air-conditioned except in the main sanctuary during worship only, and I would bet that was the case here as well.

  The response that must have been forthcoming as a result of the man’s outcry I didn’t hear at all, but it was followed almost immediately by the male voice again.

  “No, I’m sorry. You’ve misunderstood things . . . I regret that, but—” Something unintelligible here, then, “It’s not . . . I can’t do that . . . No . . . Stop . . . Damn you, stop!”

  There was a crash, a shriek—more of indignation than pain, I hoped—and the sounds of a light scuffle. This, finally, mobilized my companion. She opened her mouth without a sound, turned away from me, froze (comically, one foot in the air), turned back to me, burbled, “Excuse me, I think I ought to go check to be sure someone doesn’t need me inside,” all on one intake of breath, dropped her trowel to the ground, and dashed off all hurly-burly toward the far end of the wing—arms flailing, knees pumping.

  I’d never have guessed the old girl had it in her.

  For a moment I didn’t move. Mrs. Clark was on her way, after all, and I was loath to leave my glen of solitude.

  Except . . .

  Except I couldn’t help remembering how swiftly things had spiraled out of control between Ty and Ronnie. And that got me to thinking. Could I be so sure that it wasn’t the two of them at it again? Two hot heads could get into trouble so much faster than one . . . and Mrs. Clark was certainly no match for them. If it was them. Or even if it was anyone like them, for that matter. This weather was getting the better of everyone.

  I was on my feet even before the decision had been finalized in my thoughts. But instead of taking Mrs. Clark’s way, I decided I would take the counterstrike method, entering from the front of the building. After all, there was no telling exactly where those voices had emerged from, and for all I knew, the duo could be on the move.

  Time to head ’em off at the pass.

  I hightailed it out of the garden, racing toward the front entrance to the church. I couldn’t exactly let an aging matron beat me to the showdown. I just hoped we weren’t making a huge mistake. Domestic situations could be tricky. Sometimes one’s aims toward being a good citizen backfired into busybody-hood. I had been accused of having a nose for trouble before—mostly by my mother, for whom trouble was something dirty to be avoided at all costs—but honestly, what is a girl to do when trouble jumps up and demands to be recognized?

  She saddles up, leaps on that bronco’s back, and prepares herself for the ride of a lifetime.

  And with that thought and an overload of metaphors, I dug my heels in and pushed harder. No one over at the fundraising events seemed to notice me running, hell-bent for leather. Then again, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It would at least guarantee the adversaries a modicum of discretion and privacy. That way, even if they were angry for the interruption, maybe they would at least be grateful not to have their dirty laundry aired before the whole congregation.

  Surely.

  I had only just reached the corner of the building when I saw a slim female figure run down the front steps, hands swiping furiously at her cheeks as she flew across the parking lot, darting in and out of the idle construction equipment, and heading off toward the crowd of revelers. Within moments, I had lost track of her entirely.

  But that didn’t mean I didn’t recognize her.

  Ronnie.

  Chapter 4

  I didn’t need to wonder whether she had been Part One of the heated exchange Letty Clark and I had overheard from the garden.

  I just knew. The same way I knew that the cashier at the grocery store was having an especially bad night with her boyfriend and was on the verge of tears as she scanned my canned goods. The way that I knew when Liss had suffered a sleepless night even before I saw her with the supercharged demitasses of espresso as opposed to her usual herbal teas, healthfully caffeine free. The way I knew when Marcus was thinking things that made me feel supercharged with the energy that was pouring off of him. The way I knew Tom wasn’t thinking those same things in quite the same, breathless way. I just knew. And as soon as I walked back through the doors of Grace Baptist, I felt the unmistakable, unsettled energy of her passing settle into my very bones as confirmation.

  Girlfriend sure had some kind of power flowing in her veins. Unfortunately I was only picking up on the negative. Big time. Anger. Resentment. Betrayal. Desire turned aside. Fierce despair. And more ferociously than all the others, hatred . . . but turned inward. Only I didn’t know whether she realized that or not, because I felt just as keenly that it was being reflected from within toward an outside source.

  Blame.

  The problem with being an empath, with only limited glimpses at the more concrete facts and details that might be available to a full-fledged clairvoyant, is, well, feelings are often hidden from the world and might not be acknowledged by even the most self-aware individuals among us. At least facts and details could be corroborated. The only way secret feelings will be confirmed is in the extreme case of a nervous breakdown, or if by some miracle the person generating the strong emotion might for some reason feel compelled to confide. Hey, it happens. More often than you might think. Especially when alcohol or guilt or some combination thereof is involved.

  What that meant in this case is that I could feel the rawness of the emotions, I could intuit some of the rest . . . but I was lacking specifics. Like the cause for the uproar itself. What had contributed to its being? What had brought things to a head?
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  Wait a minute. What had brought what to a head?

  Before I could begin wondering in that direction, I headed into the church in order to meet up with Letty somewhere in the middle—assuming I could even find the middle—but as I paused in the foyer, I was distracted by the purposeful sound of booted footsteps on the stairs leading up from the basement.

  I turned instinctively toward the sound. Almost immediately a head popped into view . . . followed by a manly set of shoulders. Arms. And yes, the rest was pretty manly, too.

  Ty Bennett.

  Interesting. Squabblers Part Deux?

  He glanced at me, looked away, then glanced back. I could have sworn he blushed. “Oh, hey,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen—”

  “She’s down at the fundraising stuff,” I supplied helpfully, quirking my head in the right direction.

  He frowned at me, pulling his chin in. “Sorry?”

  “You know.” I looked around but saw no one, so continued in a low, confidential tone, “Ronnie. She’s down at the fundraising stuff.”

  Again with the blank look. “Oh. Okay. Thanks for the warning.”

  Was he trying to save face?

  “Actually,” he continued, “I was looking for the rest of the guys on the construction crew. We were all down in the meeting area in the basement. You know, waiting for the bosses to let us know we were good to go. Cooler down there.”

  “You were down with the construction crew.”

  “Yeah. Then I . . . well, I guess I lost ’em.”

  I squinted at him, not hiding my skepticism.

  He grimaced, shifted his weight from foot to foot, then lowering his voice, admitted, “I, uh, had to hit the john.”

  My cheeks flushed hot. “Oh.”

  “I guess I was in there longer than I thought.”

  Well, if that wasn’t too much info . . . “Oh,” I said again.

  “When I came out, they were gone. I thought I heard voices, so I came up here to meet up with ’em.”

  He’d heard voices, too. Maybe he wasn’t part of the contentious twosome Letty and I had overheard.

  Or maybe he just didn’t want us to know that he was.

  I couldn’t say as I blamed him, were that the case. It’s embarrassing to have your dirty laundry aired out in the open. Especially twice in one afternoon, in front of the same nosy neighbor. Not that I was one. Honestly, I don’t live anywhere near them. Ba dum bum.

  “Well,” I told him, “I haven’t seen anyone else in here.”

  “Huh. I guess they must have ditched me as soon as I locked the john door.”

  “Ah. Well, I hope you find them.”

  “I’d better, or my crew leader’ll have my hide. Guess I’ll go wait by the equipment. Groundbreaking’s supposed to start anytime now, anyways.”

  Ooooh. Just my kind of fun.

  All right, so I’m kidding about that. Really I could think of little less exciting than watching piles of dirt being moved around. It also meant my peaceful little escape in the garden probably wasn’t going to be peaceful for long, either.

  As Ty left the cool shade of the lobby for the sunstroke-inducing glare outside, I turned my attention back to the selection of closed doors leading off the foyer, wondering how to go about locating the rear wing. Through the sanctuary? Surely not. Maybe this door . . .

  The door opened inward. I turned the knob and pushed it open, hoping to find a hall stretching toward the rear of the church. To my relief, I did. I also found Letty Clark six steps away from the door, disheveled, pink cheeked, and winded. Startled, I blinked at her.

  “Did you find them?” she demanded.

  I thought I was surprised before, because finding her there behind Door Number One was just a little too strange, but this question floored me. “Didn’t you?”

  She shook her head. “No. They disappeared before I got there. Did you see anyone come this way?”

  I hesitated only a moment before saying, “Um . . . no. I didn’t see anyone come this way.”

  I don’t know why I felt compelled to lie . . . and yet I found the fib rolling off my tongue. Calmly. Without guilt. Because while there was no real reason to keep secret from her the identities of the two people I had witnessed separately emerging from the church, there was no real reason to tell her, either. Because whether I knew them or not, and despite the fact that they had chosen a fairly public place for their battleground, Ty and Ronnie’s problems were their business and theirs alone, and I felt they deserved a chance to let the snarling dogs of their emotions settle down on their own. Without expanding their viewing audience by a party of one.

  Letty frowned. “I don’t understand. They must have come right past you.”

  The way she was peering at me made me nervous. She was too suspicious for my own good. “They must have been faster than me, I guess. Unless there’s another exit from the hall?”

  Now it was Letty’s turn to pause. Did I imagine the hesitation before she answered? Or just misinterpret it? “No. No exit from the wing, other than the one I came through.”

  “Hm. It’s a mystery, then.” To get myself off the hook, I glanced at the time on my cell phone. “Well, it seems as though the groundbreaking should be next on the schedule.”

  Letty was still muddling over the missing pair and didn’t respond. Instead she wandered away with a vague mutter about “people not respecting the office of the Lord.” Truth be told, I was a little relieved. It allowed me to slip away unnoticed.

  And I did. Immediately. Exit, stage left.

  Back to the throng of fundraisers, in hopes that I could spy Evie or Tara somewhere in their midst.

  It didn’t take as long as I thought it would. I caught sight of Tara first, standing off to one side of a group of people who had gathered around a plain, unadorned table situated somewhat in the middle of the event. Almost instantly I knew something was up. Tara’s dark head was raised, her shoulders back, her feet braced, looking for all the world like she was about to storm the castle. Evie huddled by her side, whispering away, and I saw Charlie there with them as well. He bracketed Tara on her opposite side with a hand on her shoulder and seemed to be trying to steer her away. Without success, I might add. Which didn’t surprise me. When Tara had her mind set on something, she was the very definition of an immovable object.

  I made my way over. “Hey, guys. What’s going on?” Tara barely flicked her eyes toward me. “Hey, Maggie,” she said, her calm tone at odds with the strained position of her shoulders. “You’re just in time.”

  “In time for what?”

  “Oh, don’t ask,” groaned Evie.

  “Why not?” I asked, wondering what was over the shoulders and heads of the people in front of us.

  “Because I’m about to raise some hell,” Tara replied, digging in her toes and straining forward against Charlie’s firm grip. “Just as soon as Charlie lets me go.”

  “Come on, Tare,” Charlie urged. “It’s not worth it, and you know it.”

  “Oh, I disagree,” Tara sang out with a kind of icy cheerfulness that sent chills down my spine. “I think it’s very worthwhile to knock these sanctimonious pricks right on their asses.”

  “Shhh,” Evie hushed her with a quick glance around those nearest. “Someone will hear.”

  “Maybe they should hear. Maybe then they’d realize what pious little nits they really are.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to matter to them, Tare,” Charlie told her. “Come on, let’s just get away. I’m gonna have to get to work any minute, and you know I can’t leave you here if you’re all worked up like this. Come on.”

  I didn’t know what had gotten Tara all het up, but whatever it was, I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like it. “What is going on?” I asked again.

  With a sour twist turning her mouth, Tara yanked her thumb toward the table setup. “See for yourself.”

  I edged my way closer to the table, squeezing in between broad shoulders, big beer bellies,
and baby bumps.

  “Are you looking for the end of the line?” asked a stringy-thin, middle-aged woman who looked a little too much like Miss Gulch from The Wizard of Oz for my taste. I’m sure she was a nice enough person anyway.

  “The end of the line for what?” I whispered back.

  “For signing the petition.”

  “Petition?”

  But the woman had moved ahead and didn’t hear my question. I pushed and prodded along until I finally had a clear view of the panel-board sign that said:

  GRACE BAPTIST CHURCH, JOIN WITH US!

  WE, THE CONGREGATION OF THE FIRST EVANGELICAL CHURCH OF LIGHT, INVITE YOU TO JOIN FORCES WITH US! DARK FORCES ARE THREATENING STONY MILL. SATAN’S FOLLOWERS ARE EVERYWHERE, BUT NEVER BEFORE HAS THAT BEEN MORE OBVIOUS THAN HERE IN OUR OWN BELOVED HOMETOWN IN THE LAST YEAR. JOIN WITH US AS WE STAND STRONG AGAINST THE DEVIL WORSHIPPERS WHO HAVE INFILTRATED OUR MIDST. GHOST HUNTERS AND WITCHES? OCCULT PRACTITIONERS? WHAT’S NEXT? WE THINK YOU KNOW. WANT TO HELP? SIGN OUR PETITION.

  Oh my goodness. First Evangelical, the refuge for Reverend Baxter Martin’s followers. And I had a pretty decent idea of who they meant by their whole devil worshippers charge. Not good, not good. And if the crowd around the table was any indication of support, this was very, very not good.

  Just over two weeks ago, Liss and Marcus had been outed as practitioners of magick by my little sister, Melanie. My own flesh and blood. They had been helping Mel with a little . . . problem of the supernatural kind, and with Mel on pregnancy bed rest per doctor’s orders, there had been no other option than to perform the banishing ritual in front of her. We had to protect her and her family from the dark entity that had wormed its way into her home. It was a noble cause, and a successful one . . . until Mel returned the favor by exposing the truth about Liss, Marcus, and the rest of the N.I.G.H.T.S. to her good friend, and my high school nemesis, Margot Dickerson-Craig. Margot Craig, who was married to the editor of our local newspaper, the Stony Mill Gazette. Margot Craig, who never heard a piece of scandal she didn’t want to pass on. It was the worst possible choice of a confi dante. And from there the news had spread. It was scary how fast . . . but that was a small town for you.