CHAPTER ONE

Gaelic Christmas music played in the Keane’s Spotted Owl Inn and Pub, competing with two older men yattering at the end of the bar. Sloane West willed the bodhran’s steady beat and the harp to drown out their voices and her pounding heart. She recalled Stella’s bar, her former neighborhood haunt in NYC, where everyone kept to themselves and spoke in hushed voices, if at all. Where she could drink alone in a crowd. But the Spotted Owl wasn’t Stella’s. And she hadn’t come to the pub to drink.

“Aye, Johnnie!” one of the older men shouted.

Sloane turned to the entry and watched a silver-haired man shuffle in. He was red-faced, and his breathing labored. “Just what we need, another one,” she said under her breath. The pub became unbearably warm. She wiped the sweat from the back of her neck and slipped her arms out of her old peacoat, fanning herself with the sides of her favorite cardigan.

“How long have you been here?” a voice asked from behind her.

She jerked forward. “Jesus, Jack. Don’t sneak up on me.”

“Sorry, love. I assumed you felt me arrive. Or have you gotten used to my vibrations already?” Jack Denham unwrapped a silk scarf from his neck and removed a black wool coat. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “It’s freezing outside. Let’s sit by the fire so I can warm up, please?”

“I’m not in the mood for ambiance,” Sloane mumbled, pulling out a stool. She first sensed a witch’s vibration when she arrived in Denwick last March. Jack’s vibration was a strong one, just like Dorothea Denham’s, her second cousin, twice removed. She must be seriously distracted not to feel him.

“Christ on a crumpet, boys. Did you hear what happened?” the man named Johnnie shouted while he struggled to hang his coat by the fireplace.

Every head in the pub turned his way.

“What are you going on about?” his friend in the thick wool sweater asked.

“Give me a minute. I’m getting there.” He hooked his walking stick on the back of a barstool. “The Morins’ entire flock is dead. Mutilated. All one hundred thirty-seven head. The way I heard it, their bowels were torn out. What was left of them spread over the paddock. Not a drop of blood was left in their bodies. The RCMP are at the farm. Major Crimes. Been there since early morning.”

Sloane and Jack glanced nervously at each other as the news silenced the pub.

Before Johnnie could utter another word, Rose Keane burst into the bar, pointing a pint glass at him. “Listen up, Johnnie. Take a breather and lower your voice before I send you out.”

Johnnie wiped his bulbous nose with the back of his hand and shook a crooked finger at her. “You wouldn’t dare do that if your dad were here.”

“Maybe so. But he isn’t here, is he? I’m the boss now, Johnnie, and you need to behave. You’re bothering the other guests. So pipe down.” Rose tossed a coaster on the bar and filled the pint glass with ale, sliding it in front of him.

Sloane stifled a smile. Rose had filled her father’s shoes and more, running the Spotted Owl admirably. She was happy for her. Rose’s brother, Oscar, had put aside his ego and agreed to work off the money their mother, Fiona, had stolen from the pub to prop up his struggling distillery. She missed their parents, especially Ken and his exaggerated Scottish act.

Sloane’s smile turned to a frown. She had left Denwick after she had stopped Lore Reed. She had failed to control her magical strength and killed Lore in the crypt, so she had to leave and sort out her life. Prepare herself to return to a new life. As a wiċċe. By the time she had returned six months later, Ken and Fiona had retired and moved to divide their time between Scotland and Jamaica. She didn’t get to say goodbye.

“Hey, Jack,” Rose said as she joined Sloane and her cousin. “Nice to see you have a smile for me unlike your lunch date. What can I get you?”

Sloane stared into her glass. She deserved Rose’s slight. It was true. She wasn’t smiling. Some days, she could sit at the Spotted Owl and convince herself protecting Rose Keane was enough for her, but on other days, like today, the reality of their situation twisted her up inside.

“I’ll have the fish and chips with a chardonnay,” Jack answered.

“I’m good,” Sloane said, raising her glass of water.

“Lovely, a cheap and moody date,” Jack said. “Why don’t we bring Grumpy a half-order of poutine?”

“If that’ll make her smile.”

“Are you two done?” Sloane frowned. “We might want to talk about this sheep attack, don’t you think? Do you know the Morin family?” she asked Rose.

“I know of them. They supplied us with lamb and mutton in the past, but I think they’ve sold exclusively to an abattoir for years. Nice people. I wouldn’t be overly upset about what Johnnie says, though. He doesn’t dive deep for the truth.” Rose handed Jack his wine and filled Sloane’s glass with more water from a bar gun. “And sorry. I was only teasing.”

“Yeah. I can take a joke,” Sloane said impassively.

Rose forced a smile and walked away.

“The police think the boy killed those sheep.” Johnnie’s voice had escalated after Rose disappeared into the kitchen.

“Scott?” his friend in the tweed flat cap asked.

“That’s right. Cathy and Les are sick about it.” Johnnie placed his pint glass on the coaster. “As I heard it, Les saw Scott run into the forest after the sheep were killed. The RCMP are looking for the boy.” He snorted cynically. “Who runs if they’re innocent?”

“That boy is a bit odd. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did it,” his friend in the sweater said.

“That is a lie.” A gravelly voice with a thick Spanish accent came from the dining room. Sloane whirled around on her stool. A stranger beside the fireplace had spoken. He rested his forearms on the tabletop. His demeanor was calm and confident. His black eyes fixed on Johnnie and his friends. “How old is this boy?” he asked.

“Well, well. Drama at the village pub,” Jack whispered. “The only thing I want to know is who’s the dark-haired Adonis?”

“Shhh.” Sloane swatted backward, hitting Jack’s thigh.

Johnnie swiveled around on his stool and faced the stranger. “If you must know, he’s got to be twelve years old by now.” He gulped the last bit of his ale and motioned to Oscar for another.

“Is he a big boy?” the man asked.

Johnnie cocked his head and held his hand level to his shoulder. “No, he’s only about yea high. Skinny as a wet otter.” He jerked his thumb at his friend in the sweater. “But like Hal said, he’s a bit off.”

“No twelve-year-old boy could mutilate one hundred and thirty-seven sheep. No human could, at least not as you described.” Something about how the stranger said boy and human made the hair on the back of Sloane’s neck prickle. The old men sat unmoving, eyeing him suspiciously. He had struck them silent for the first time since Sloane arrived.

Oscar picked up Johnnie’s empty glass and poured him another ale. Johnnie snatched the pint from his hand, drank some courage, and turned back to the stranger. “What’s your name, son?” he asked curtly.

“Mateo Ciervo. But you don’t know my familia or me. We are not from here.” The large man loosened his posture, resting back against the chair, his hands in his lap.

“We can tell that. A bit of advice, Mr. Ciervo. When you’re in an unfamiliar pub, you should listen. You might learn a thing or two. See here, Scott Morin comes from a good home, but he has caused his share of trouble.” He looked to his friends for confirmation. Their heads bobbed up and down. “His mother’s a good woman, and his father tries his hardest to raise him right. For God’s sake, he even takes him to piano lessons instead of hockey—”

“Oh, make that man Father of the Year,” Jack said sarcastically. Johnnie shot him a harsh look, and Jack held his finger to his lips, mouthing an apology.

Johnnie faced Mateo again. “What did you say you were doing here?”

“I didn’t. But if you must know, I’m hunting.” He drained the rest of his drink, dropped money on the table, and stood.

“He’s even better looking on his feet,” Jack whispered. “I wonder what he looks like—” Sloane elbowed his knee hard. “Ouch.”

“My opinion might be unwelcomed, but Scott Morin did not kill those sheep.” Mateo grabbed a walking stick leaning against the fireplace and climbed the Inn’s staircase, disappearing down a hallway.

“How would he know, right?” Johnnie’s cheeks became ruddier. His friends grunted their agreement.

The kitchen door swung open, and Oscar appeared carrying two plates. Johnnie and his friends tried to catch his attention as he hurried past. He set Sloane’s and Jack’s lunch plates on the bar. “I apologize for the wait. Do you need anything else?”

“Your charming presence is all that I need, Oscar, deary,” Jack answered. “Unless you have any other suggestions?”

“None at the moment. I’ll get back to you.”

Sloane chuckled. “How long until you take a hint?”

“As long as it takes, love. He offered a raincheck of sorts, and I’m a patient man.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree. You’re not his type.”

Jack smoothed a napkin over his lap. “Please, love. I suit everyone’s taste.”

“All right. Good luck with that. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Sloane had met Jack three months earlier when she returned to Denwick from NYC. He was another second cousin. The one Dorathea had told her about last March. A member of her extended West family from the magical world. The Grand Coven, the leaders of the wiċċan in the Northwest Quadrant, had trained him to be a Protector. After it was discovered that Lore had killed Sloane’s grandparents and her mother, they sent him to join their coven in Denwick. They were three witches strong again: Sloane, Dorothea, and now the colorful Jack. Three points. A triangle. The symbol of power.

The Denwick Nogicals believed he had arrived to run the West Gallery, the art business Sloane’s grandparents had left her. He did a decent job at it, which was no surprise. He had been a gallerist for the Quadrant’s Art Gallery. No matter whom he talked to—stranger, friend, or family—Jack exuded charm. Over the last few months, Sloane thought maybe the GC had trained the wrong cousin. What Jack didn’t lack in good looks and affability, he lacked in modesty. She wondered how vanity could stop a Hidden One or a Demon’s plans to irradicate all wiċċan Protectors and control the nogical and magical worlds.

Sloane speared the poutine with her fork, twirling a bite of fries through heavy gravy and cheese curds. Rose hadn’t returned from the kitchen. She wondered what or who was holding her up, and it was concerning.

“Are you going to play with your food or eat it?” Jack asked after a few minutes.

“I’m preoccupied.”

“You don’t say.” He sipped his wine. “Why not confess your feelings? If Rose won’t have you, move on. It makes no sense to come here and pine. It’s unbecoming of a wiċċe of your stature.”

Sloane stared at her lunch. She still wasn’t sure what her stature meant. Apparently, she was a rare wiċċe whose magical ability was protection. She had learned from Dorathea that like her great-great-grandfather, her purpose was to start a coven with her eldest sister that would rid the nogical world of evil. But she didn’t have a sister or the training necessary to found her own coven. Dorathea explained that since Sloane’s mother and grandparents were dead, she would head the West Coven in time. The thought overwhelmed her. “Oh, so witches aren’t allowed to have emotions?” she snapped.

“Of course they are.” He speared a bite of fries. “I’m only saying your behavior is bad form. You’re sulking because you can’t have her.”

“You’re wrong. I’m not sulking. Today, of all days, I thought you’d agree I need to be here.” This wasn’t the first time Jack accused her of sitting in the pub and pining away for Rose, and it pissed her off. He knew during every full moon, as long as Rose’s ex, Talia, was there, she would be there, protecting Rose. “Jesus. Why do I agree to eat with you?”

“You must spend time with me, we’re family. You might even like me one day.”

“Yeah. That’s doubtful.” Sloane glanced at the kitchen door.

“Growl. You are in a mood.” Jack took a large bite of his battered fish, and they ate the rest of their meal silently while the conversation in the pub buzzed.

Sloane had convinced herself that Rose hadn’t returned from the kitchen because Chef needed her help. But when Oscar also started to look concerned, she decided it was time to investigate. But just as she stepped off her barstool, Rose appeared.

“Everything okay?” Rose asked them, refilling Sloane’s water.

“We’re splendid, deary,” Jack answered. “You’ve been an excellent host. As always.”

Sloane noticed Rose’s red-rimmed eyes. “What about you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Rose looked back at the kitchen door. “But Talia isn’t. She twisted her ankle during her run this morning and called me for a ride, but my phone was upstairs.” Rose frowned. “So she had to walk home from Cowichan Road.”

“Well, how would you have known she needed you, deary?” Jack asked, his voice soothing.

Rose’s emotional pain lived in Sloane’s head as if it were her own. But her anger toward Talia provoked her to say abruptly, “Does she usually run near the Morin farm?”

“I guess she might go as far as their place,” Rose answered. “Why?”

“Just wondering if she saw the police out there or anything else. Anything strange?” A thick, auburn curl framed Rose’s profile, holding on to the soft line of her chin. Sloane resisted the urge to tuck it behind Rose’s ear and touch her cheek.

Before Rose could answer, the kitchen door swung open, and Talia Koslov entered the pub. Her short, thick, ashy hair was damp, sticking straight up, and her gaunt face was even paler than usual. She avoided eye contact with anyone, limped across the dining room, and climbed the Inn’s staircase.

The hair on Sloane’s body pricked. It happened every time Rose’s college ex-girlfriend appeared. She scanned the dining room. Everyone ignored Talia’s presence, except for Oscar. He had stopped. He kept his eyes on her until she disappeared at the top of the stairs. Then he marched to the bar and shoved his empty tray into Rose’s hands.

“Working off my debt to the pub doesn’t include covering the tables and bar alone because you and your girlfriend can’t get along. Whatever her excuse is for not working this time, you have five minutes to change her mind. Or I won’t be here.” He glared at his sister, and the air around them became eerily calm and heavy.

Sloane and Jack positioned their hands under the bar, ready to conjure any spell necessary should the second most powerful Magicals in the pub break into a fight.

“She’s hurt, Oscar,” Rose said, inching closer to his face.

“Then you need to find someone else to take her place,” he said without moving.

“Fine. I will.” Rose stepped past her brother, knocking him with her shoulder. Oscar returned to the dining room.

“Well, well. That would have been something. Have you ever seen Dhampyres fight? Mentally, of course. I’m not saying they would’ve come to blows, although that would have been exciting, too.”

“Shut up, Jack.”

“All right, Princess. I can take a hint.” Jack dabbed at his mouth with the corner of his napkin and placed it on his plate. “It’s been quite a riveting lunch hour at the Spotted Owl. I’m heading back to the gallery. Do you want me to go upstairs and light the fireplace in your office so it’s nice and toasty when you return, or are you staying here to cause more trouble for Rose?”

His question churned in Sloane’s stomach. Last March, she had learned that the Interspecies Concealment Law required all magical species Defenders, like her Protecter coven, the Keanes, and the Reed family, to live in complete anonymity. It was the only way to prevent magical collusion with Demons. The magical Defenders in Denwick first learned of each other after Sloane had killed Lore Reed. The Interspecies Council agreed to let them live with their knowledge of each other until the Demon in Denwick was destroyed. But Sloane had promised Rose she would never again keep secrets from her. Yet here she was, forced to keep another one. A deadly one about Talia. Sloane pushed away her empty plate. “I’m not the one causing Rose problems.”

“See there. You can lie,” Jack said with a chuckle.

Sloane ignored him, staring straight ahead. The wall behind the bar was outlined in festive holiday lights. The Keane family photos and their framed tartan, the burgundy and black pattern with thin yellow lines, hung in the center. Besides Rose and Oscar, she was the only other person in the pub who knew the tartan was the Keane’s portal out of the nogical world. It gave her some relief. If Talia lost control and threatened Rose’s life, she could escape.

Jack waved for Rose’s attention, but she was in a heated discussion on the bar’s phone, so he pulled money out of his wallet, laid it on the bar, and stepped off his barstool. “We have no proof Talia has anything to do with the Hidden Ones, love. As far as we know, none of her family lines trace back to a banished family. You need to let it go. As long as you hang around here, perched on your spy seat, poor Rose will continue to hold feelings for you. Doesn’t that concern you?”

“At the moment, we only need to be concerned with what killed the Morins’ sheep, Jack. There’s absolutely no way a twelve-year-old little boy could have done what they say has happened out there. I think we both know what the attack means—a Hidden One is back in Denwick. And we have no idea who or what it is.” He looked at her incredulously. “And I think it’s trying to draw us out, goading us.”

Sloane put on her peacoat and pulled her tote’s strap over her head. Her cousin was dead wrong about Talia Koslov. And she was going to prove it.