The evening's meal kicked off with “stick food,” as Zoey called it—skewers of marinated vegetables and fresh mozzarella balls. Next were crab wonton cups, asparagus spears rolled in ham, bruschetta with three kinds of tapenade, miniature stuffed potatoes, and Greek-style lamb souvlaki. For the kids, there were miniature hot dogs and burgers. The mini dogs were such a hit, I had to whip up a second batch, and even so, Corvin pouted when they were all gone.
“Wonderful party,” Frank said. “Zara, tell me something. I went to get some ice cubes in your kitchen, and I saw a strange appliance inside your freezer. Are you making fresh ice cream?”
The words fresh ice cream were as effective as a klaxon at getting everyone's attention. All eyes turned toward me. We were gathered in the living room, half sitting and half standing. Zoey and I had lugged the dining room table in earlier to hold the buffet at the side of the room. It wasn't until that moment, with all eyes on me, that I realized how many eyes eight people had. Sixteen eyes were on me.
“Inside your freezer,” Frank repeated. “Am I crazy, or is there a big metal appliance in there?”
“Oh, that's just the toaster,” I said with a hand wave. “Long story.”
All eyes stayed on me.
Corvin reached into his pocket and withdrew a squashed miniature hot dog. He ate it without taking his big eyes off me.
Dorothy Tibbits took a seat facing me and smoothed her blue pinafore dress. “Sounds like a good story, Zara. Tell us more.”
Kathy Carmichael, who'd been lifting a miniature stuffed potato to her lips, returned the food to her plate. “Who keeps a toaster in the freezer?”
I looked at Chet for help. He gave me a wide-eyed look. He didn't know about the toaster's attempts to electrocute or trip me, because I hadn't told him.
Step in any time, I said to Winona Vander Zalm inside my head. You could riff on the word “toaster” and propose a toast.
My ghost said nothing. She'd gone on her break and fallen asleep.
Zoey stood up. “The toaster's having a time-out,” she said.
Grampa Don asked, “What did the toaster do?”
Everyone waited expectantly.
“It burned the toast,” I said.
Kathy snorted. “That's all?”
“Mom's not much of a cook,” Zoey said.
I nodded. “I know it doesn't sound so dramatic, but we were down to our last two slices of cinnamon bread, and the evil toaster charred them.”
Frank laughed and slapped his knee. “Wonderful story, Zara! Totally worth the dramatic buildup.”
I shot him a dirty look. “Thanks, Frank.”
“I don't understand,” Dorothy Tibbits said, frowning and shaking her brown pigtails. “Zara, how can your daughter say you're not much of a cook?” She gestured to the buffet on the table. “This is the best food I've had in years, and I dine at all the best places.”
“Ms. Vander Zalm helped me,” I said.
Once more, sixteen eyes turned to me.
“I knew it,” Frank said, wagging a finger at me. “That's your secret.”
“You got me,” I said with an eye roll. “There's a ghost in my house, and she does all my catering. Ha ha, very funny.”
Corvin whispered, “There is a ghost.”
Nobody laughed.
And then, after the longest silence, I heard the most wonderful sound. Chet, laughing.
“Oh, Zara,” he said. “You're exactly the breath of fresh air we needed around here.” He lifted his glass. “To our new friends, the Riddles,” he said. “May we all enjoy many more good times together.”
“Hear, hear,” said Dorothy Tibbits.
Everyone met in the center of the room and clinked their glasses. Zoey and Corvin clinked their juice boxes.
The little boy didn't speak to me again that night, but whenever I looked his way, he was staring at me with those big, dark eyes.
What are you? I wondered. Are you a shifter like your father? You changed into a bird and swooped at me in the forest, didn't you?
I didn't find any answers in those dark eyes.
Chapter 28
THREE HOURS LATER
“Zara Riddle, you are one heck of an entertainer,” Chet said as he helped gather empty wine glasses.
I surveyed the wreckage of a successful housewarming party. The previous four hours had passed like a dream, no thanks to my ghost, who'd been sulking in the corners of my mind.
Most of the guests were gone. We had moved the dining table back into the dining room for dessert. The table sat seven with the leaf installed, so we'd dismissed the kids and sat the adults around the table.
The children had gladly taken over the living room, preferring movies over grown-up conversation. Corvin and Zoey weren't interested in library circulation numbers or the price of local real estate. Both children were now asleep on the sofas.
When we checked in on the kids, Chet said of Corvin, “That kid gets heavier each time he falls asleep somewhere other than his bed. I've got my workout planned for tonight. Lugging Corvin out of here should make up for half a session with Knox.”
“Knox? Is that your personal trainer?”
Chet grinned. “He wishes.” He grabbed another drink glass and brought it into the kitchen. He started filling the sink with water.
“Leave those dishes for the morning,” I said. “There's no rule about having to clean up the night of the party.”
“There should be a rule,” he said with fatherly authority. “Especially if you live in a creaky old house with gaps big enough for mice to squeeze through.”
“Are you saying I have mice?” I held my hands up to my cheeks, feigning shock. “A ghost is bad enough.”
Chet looked down at his feet. “What am I standing in? Salt? Sugar?”
“Probably both.” I grabbed the nearby broom and started sweeping around him. “What's the deal with brooms? Why are they so closely associated with witches? I seriously doubt they're the best objects for flying on. Why not something with a seat wider than an inch? Like a bicycle?”
“A bicycle?” He chuckled.
“It's not that crazy. They flew on a bicycle in the movie E.T.”
He took the broom from my hands and swept up the spilled salt and sugar.
“Brooms are better for sweeping than for flying,” he said. “Most supernaturals prefer airplanes. There's an in-flight snack, and you arrive at your destination without bugs in your teeth.” He got down on one knee and shot me a sexy look as he swept the pieces into the dustpan.
Chet's down on one knee, I heard a voice in my head say. This is just like that night on the beach.
I asked, what night on the beach? Winona Vander Zalm, is there something you're trying to tell me?
The voice didn't answer.
Chet had finished sweeping up and was now staring at me. “Zara, are you still with us?”
“Barely.”
He looked around. “I see one bottle of wine that survived the party. I've got half a mind to open it up.” He quirked a dark eyebrow.
“Open the wine,” I said.
He washed two glasses, grabbed the bottle, and had the cork out in ten seconds flat.
“How'd you do that?” I asked, incredulous. “I didn't even see the corkscrew.”
He waggled both dark eyebrows. “Shifters don't need corkscrews.” He held up his right pointer finger. The cork from the bottle appeared to be stuck to the end of his finger. It had been pierced by a thick, whirling claw. Now the claw was retracting, disappearing into his nail bed. The cork fell off with a pop. Chet tossed the cork high in the air and caught it behind his back without taking his eyes off me.
I held both hands to my chest. “Be still my beating heart! He lives right next door, and he's a human bottle opener!” I closed my eyes and tilted up my face, whispering, “Thank you for answering my prayers.”
Chet cracked up laughing. He poured the wine into our glasses. With a sigh, he said, “It feels so good to be my t
rue self around someone again.”
Again? I took my glass of pink wine and held it aloft for a toast. It was a sweet dessert rosé, the perfect sugary pick-me-up for the end of an evening.
“A toast to being our true selves,” I said.
“Our true selves,” he murmured in agreement. “Now, tell me what's been going on inside that pretty red head of yours. Have you been getting any messages from beyond?”
“Messages? Not really. Winona gives me ideas.”
“How about threats?”
“Nothing's tried to kill me since the bird attack in the woods. I suppose it helps that I haven't gone anywhere near Pacific Spirit Park since our incident Monday.”
“About that,” he said, ruffling his dark hair with one hand. “I'm having Charlie look into the incident. We think it was a stray agent who got confused on a training mission. It was nothing.”
“Chet, you were ripped apart. That thing tried to make a Chet-shaped furry rug out of you.”
“I told you it was nothing. Forget about it.” He made eye contact and held it intensely. “You need to focus on what you do best. Catching souls.”
I sipped my wine. “Catching souls? My aunt calls it being Spirit Charmed.”
“Zinnia Riddle,” Chet said, nodding. “Is she training you?”
I glugged more wine and cursed myself for spilling Zinnia's secret. It would have been a terrible mistake if he hadn't already known all about her.
I walked over to the kitchen island and took a seat on a bar stool. After standing throughout the party, my feet appreciated the break. Chet took a seat across from me and struck a casual pose with his elbows on the countertop. He loosened his yellow tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt.
“Zara, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to share,” he said. “But you will find I'm a good listener.”
We'll see about that, I thought, and I began telling him about some of the funny things that had happened at the library that week. It had to be boring compared to his work as a secret investigator, but he really was a good listener.
I kept stopping myself to get him talking about himself, but he was a conversational ninja, always turning it back to me.
I found myself telling him about everything that had happened over the past two weeks, from throwing out Kathy's acorn jelly on my first day at the library to giving my daughter a magical wedgie before the party.
I tried to stop my chatter, but those green eyes kept shifting between shades of moss and emerald, and I kept sharing. I wanted nothing standing between us. Here was the man I'd been looking for, the man I could be myself with. After sixteen years of nothing substantial, I was ready. Ready to open my heart, to bare my soul, to make terrible mistakes in the name of love.
We ran out of wine, but not conversation. I glanced over at the clock on the stove. It was four o'clock in the morning. The sun would be coming up soon. Despite the late hour, neither of us had yawned once.
“Enough about me,” I said for the tenth time. “When did you find out about your powers? Were you a shifter already back during my Zara the Camgirl days? Did you and the other shifters hang out in secret internet forums?”
His green eyes darkened like doors closing. “I'm not authorized to share that information.”
I groaned at hearing that hated phrase. Using my levitation magic, I grabbed a crusty bread roll, which had become significantly more crusty over the last eight hours of being out, and lobbed it across the kitchen island at Chet's head.
He reached up, wolfish claws extending from his fingertips to catch the bread roll, but he was too slow. The roll crunched into his forehead with full force and then fell away, leaving flakes of brown above his eyebrow.
I giggled. “Too slow,” I teased. “You can't defeat my powers.”
“You caught me by surprise,” he growled. “It won't happen again.”
That sounded like a dare. I fired away with three more rolls, all coming from different directions. Chet swatted away two out of three. The one that got through his claw defenses ricocheted off his ear.
“Two out of three ain't bad,” I said.
He growled, “Again.”
The deep timbre of his voice, combined with the way he leaned forward, eyes flashing, sent a shiver through my spine.
I selected three more rolls and floated them clumsily through the air, feigning exhaustion. Then I reached my hand out awkwardly for a water tumbler, knocking a spoon to the floor. “Oops,” I said as it clattered to the floor. As soon as I sensed Chet's distraction, I fired at his head with all three rolls in sequence.
He lashed the bread rolls away in a frenzy of crumbs. The air smelled of burned toast. But the most surprising part was his face, which had contorted. His features were partway between human and wolf, a terrifying, inhuman look. My breath caught in my throat. I blinked, and the angry-looking lumps and deep wrinkles that distorted his features disappeared. He was human again, but the demonic face had burned into my mind. It was the face of nightmares.
“It's late,” he said, getting to his feet. He looked down and brushed the bread crumbs from his dark-gray suit. His hands looked normal again, but they'd never look the same to me.
“Sun's coming up,” I said.
“I should have left hours ago,” he said, his voice gritty but quiet. “Corvin has a schedule. He should be sleeping in his own bed when the sun comes up.”
I jumped up and caught him by the arm. “Wait,” I said.
He wouldn't look at me. “I'm sorry I scared you.”
“I'm not scared.”
He slowly met my eyes.
I repeated myself. “I'm not scared. You took me by surprise, but I'm not afraid.” I reached up slowly and touched his cheek with my hand.
He closed his eyes.
It was the first time I'd touched him since healing him in the forest. I felt the orange warmth in my hands once more—faint, but present.
“I mean it,” I said. “Chet, you can be your true self around me.”
“Zara, you're a nice girl,” he said. “You didn't sign up for any of this.”
“A nice girl?” I put my hands on my hips. “There's no need to be sarcastic,” I joked.
“It's late.” He turned and walked toward the living room.
Corvin was sleeping like a kitten. His lower half was curled under a patchwork quilt, and his top half was stretched out, nearly melting off the edge of the sofa. Chet leaned over and picked him up as easily as crumpled paper. His comment about the boy getting heavy had been a cover, part of his act of being normal. The man had supernatural strength even in human form. He cradled the sleeping ten-year-old boy easily with one arm.
“Thank you for inviting us,” Chet said formally.
“Thanks for coming. Who wouldn't want a guest who comes with ten corkscrews?”
He gave me a blank look.
I held up my hand and wiggled my fingers. “Your special corkscrews.”
He gave me the same look Zoey gave me for making bad puns.
Corvin stirred in his arms and made a sound like a sleeping pigeon.
Chet flicked his gaze over to Zoey, who was stirring on the couch at the sound of our voices.
“Please thank Zoey for being such a good friend to Corvin.” His voice was low and thick with emotion. “The kindness of the Riddle family does not go unnoticed.”
He moved with supernatural speed toward the door, and then he was gone.
I walked over to Zoey and attempted to rouse her. She flopped one sleepy hand over her eyes and mumbled, “Five more minutes.”
I leaned over and brushed her red hair out of her face. She looked like a sleeping angel.
“You made me proud tonight,” I whispered.
“Two minutes,” she mumbled.
“You're so patient with me,” I said. “I know you hate it when things change, but we're making good changes.”
Her face relaxed and her breathing slowed. She was fast asleep.
�
��I just want you to be happy.” I shook out the patchwork quilt and tucked it in around her. “Happy and safe.”
A male voice behind me said, “Safe? You'll have to try harder.”
I whipped around, my hands raised to defend myself.
There was someone in the room with us. Chet's father, Don.
“Grampa Don,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
He sat like a coiled rattlesnake in the recliner in the darkened corner of the room.
I could have sworn I'd seen him leave with the other guests. I glanced around the room, making note of the objects that were light enough for me to lift with my magic and still heavy enough to do some damage.
Chapter 29
“I've always found this home very comfortable for napping,” Don said, shifting the recliner into the upright position.
“What did you mean about me keeping my daughter safe?”
He rubbed his chin and looked over at Zoey, who was sleeping soundly on the sofa, her red hair fanned out on the soft velvet pillow.
“This town has many secrets,” he said. “And when you two moved here, it gained a few more.”
“Grampa Don, is there something you want to tell me?”
“Little ol' me?” He chuckled.
In the low light of the room, Don Moore's gray hair was the color of the ashes at the end of a burned cigarette. He'd seemed like a sweet, harmless senior citizen when he was bartering for pork products. Now, in the thin light of predawn, his facial features took on knife-edge sharpness.
“Either spit it out or hit the road,” I growled.
He leaned the recliner back again, so his face was in the shadows.
I used my powers to click the nearby lamp's brightness up a notch. It wasn't the same as shining an interrogation light in someone's face, but it was better than nothing.
Don gave me the smallest of nods. “If you want to keep your family safe, you need to open your eyes,” he said. “Chet can't handle everything on his own. He's blinded by his own emotions and too open to influence by Charlie and the others.”
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