It was a perfect trap. She stood at the window, biting her lip, glancing frequently, obsessively, at her wristwatch. 3:10. 3:11. 3:13. She’d gone more than a minute without looking that time. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, butterflies dancing in her stomach. 3:14. She placed her palm at the nape of her neck, caressing the skin in an act of self comfort. She shifted her weight again, about to check her watch when she heard the tell-tale sounds of a large vehicle crunching its way down Gladiola Road.

Gracey leaned forward, her hips pressed against the counter’s cool formica. The school bus stopped just across the way, and she waited impatiently as Alejandro and Marco alighted from the bus.

Dammit, she thought, kicking herself mentally. She’d forgotten about Alejandro. How could she forget about the twin? She glanced back at the table she’d set for two with a huge peanut butter pie and two roast beef sandwiches. She could invite them both over, but it wasn’t Alejandro she needed to speak with.

Cursing again, mind racing as she revised her plan of attack, Gracey rushed outside, waved at the boys. Alejandro returned her greeting with perfunctory politeness and then hurried into the house. That was easy, she thought. He scrambled out of here like I had the plague.

Marco, however, lingered, looking at Gracey with an expression that seemed far too old for the eight year old to wear. Desperation colored the lines of his face, and for a moment, the child seemed ancient, too knowing, careworn. It was all Gracey could do not to rush to him and bring him into a furtive hug.

Instead, she dug her hands into her pockets, trying to appear casual. “Hey, Marco,” she began, her fake smile too wide. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” he said. “I got 15 out of 16 on my music memory test.”

“That’s great. Which one did you miss?”

“I couldn’t remember who wrote Gianni Schicchi.”

“Oh. Do you know now?”

“Puccini. But I remembered it too late. Hey, Gracey?”

“Yeah?”

Tears began to well in the boy’s eyes, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly. “I think I did something bad.”

The words came out as a whisper, and Gracey’s heart leaped when she heard them. She held out her hand, which the boy accepted gladly. “Do you want to come inside and talk about it?”

He said nothing, only nodding as he followed her into the house, bravely fighting the tears that tried to make their way down his cheeks.

She sat him down at the table in front of the pie, but she knew immediately that he wasn’t hungry. She cleared away the plates and glasses and sat down with him, folding her hands on the table, trying to smile. Her face felt tight. “It’s ok, Marco,” she said. “Just start at the beginning.”

The boy faltered, uncertain where to begin. But once he got going, the story rushed out of him like water breaking free of a dam. He told her about the Ouija board in the cemetery, about seeing Rubio Bautista in the tree, about the susto that caused him to sleep for three days. He told her about the visits from Two Rabbit and finally he told her about the woman at the funeral, the woman who Marco was sure, absolutely sure, was no woman at all, but something he had unleashed, something that had come to Love & War for reasons Marco couldn’t begin to guess at.

“She screams in her head,” he concluded, his nails digging into the flesh of his palm. “She walks around smiling but in her head she wants to burn everyone up.”

The deluge having dried up, Marco crossed his arms on the table and put his head down. Gracey leaned back in her chair, mind awhirl as she tried to take it all in. She felt her fingertips going cold, her stomach beginning to turn. She hoped she wasn’t about to get sick.

The boy’s story was outlandish, of course, and no sane person with an average understanding of the world could have possibly believed a word of it. It was all the fancy of an imaginative, lonely little boy. She wanted to believe that, even flirted with forcing herself to believe that. But every fiber of her being reverberated as he’d spoken, and she could sense the truth flowing out of him. The story was as true as silver, right as rain. And in a sick, horrible kind of way, it all made sense. At least, it all fit together.

But why a ghost would return to the manifest world simply to murder the descendants of the founding families was a question Gracey had not even the beginnings of an answer to.

“But if she’s a ghost, why does she have a real, tangible body?”

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken the words out loud until Marco raised his head, his eyes red from crying. “She’s a witch.” He said this as though these words explained everything.

And perhaps they did.

They sat in shared, uncomfortable silence for a long time. She reached out, stroked Marco’s hand. She wasn’t sure how to console the child. Finally, she stood up, kicking her chair to the side. She walked to the refrigerator, poured two tall glasses of iced tea. Sat down again.“Crying always makes me thirsty,” she explained, putting the glass in front of Marco. “Do you want any lemon?”

Marco hesitated before taking a long drink. When he looked up again, his face was full of apprehension. “Gracey, there’s something else I didn’t tell you.”

“What’s that?”

Marco swallowed hard, nervously twisting his fingers in his lap. “The witch woman? The ghost? You know her.”

Now, Gracey felt her chest grow tight as a ball of dread welled up from her stomach, pressed against her lungs. “I do? Who is it, Marco?”

“She’s that woman with your friend. The magician. Simon St. Laine.”

It took Gracey a moment to process Marco’s words. What woman? Then realization rushed over her, turning dread into abject nausea as she leaned forward onto her elbows, hoping Marco couldn’t read the fear in her face. “His cousin? The woman he brought with him to the funeral?”

Marco only nodded.

Gracey pushed herself away from the table, her head swimming, everything moving slightly out of focus. It was difficult to breathe. She found herself suddenly cold despite the heat, and as she wrapped her arms around her torso, the only thought she could hold onto was, I can’t be sick in front of Marco.

At last she turned again to face him, searching his face for…something. She didn’t know what. He was only a child. “Does he know? What she is?”

Marco shrugged, shook his head. “I can’t read minds.”

She laughed then, needing to laugh despite everything else. No, of course he couldn’t read minds. She didn’t know the extent of his gifts, of course, but even Marco, as talented or cursed as he was, couldn’t know everything. What he did know was obviously a burden for him. The boy’s face had aged in the preceding weeks; she saw that now. How had she missed it before? But she hadn’t been looking then. She’d been wrapped up in her own world, subject to her own concerns and fears. Her thoughts had been full of Audra Fairgood, and her mother, and the Prime of Darkness and, of course, her ever-deepening affair with Simon St. Laine.

“Gracey?”

His voice yanked her out of the feeble cycle of questions churning though her mind. “Hmm.”

“Will you help me?”

The plea was so sincere she thought her heart might break into a hundred pieces. She gathered the boy in her arms, smoothing his hair as he rested his cheek against her shoulder. “Yes, Marco. We’ll figure it out. I’m going to find a way to make this all go away.”

She supposed she hadn’t yet outgrown the habit of speaking aloud to convince herself the idea was true.

The Prime of Darkness had nothing in the way of a cell phone, or a social network, or even an email address. Of course, most of the time, the last thing Gracey wanted to do was call upon the demon, but sometimes she needed his power to add to her arsenal. Today was such a day, and the Prime of Darkness was nowhere to be found. Undeterred, Gracey began pulling ingredients from her larder, mentally blending the perfect concoction of flavors and texture.

The only surefire way Gracey knew to attract the demon’s attention was to make a phenomenal dinner.

Chiles arboles went into the molcajete. The griddle was turned up high to inflate the corn dough into tortillas. She’d barely chopped the final clove of garlic for the guacamole when the air around her grew almost imperceptibly darker and colder, alerting her to the Prime of Darkness’s presence.

“You’re almost as reliable as Batman when I have the right tools,” she commented as she chopped, not even deigning to look up. “I need your help.”

The demon leaned over her shoulder, took a sniff. “Carnitas?”

Gracey shook her head. “Carne asada. Carnitas take too long. I need your help.”

The demon retreated, took a seat at the kitchen table. “I’m listening.”

Gracey dumped the garlic into a bowl, wiped her hands on her apron. When her eyes met the demon’s, they were unblinking and wide. “What do you know about ghosts?”

The demon shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

The demon drummed his fingers on the table, his head cocked to one side. “Why would I know anything about ghosts?”

Gracey threw up her hands. “Because you’re a demon!”

Gracey’s logic seemed to defy the Prime, whose expression broke into the barest resemblance of a smile. “Ghosts are things that were once human. I was never human.”

“Have you ever met one?”

The Prime of Darkness nodded. “Yes.”

“And?”

“I don’t know what you expect me to say, Gracey. Ghosts are humans who have died and yet, for reasons I don’t know, linger. Between the two of us, I should think you’d more about ghosts than I do. You, after all, are at least human.”

Gracey glanced up at the clock. After Marco had left, she’d invited Simon over for dinner. She’d argued with herself over the wisdom of this move, but in the end she decided she had no choice, and better to face her suitor on her own turf than in some neutral, public place.

At least at home she had the advantage of demonic backup.

“There’s a woman,” Gracey explained slowly, “who, it turns out, isn’t a woman at all and who is probably responsible for all the people who have died here recently.” Gracey checked the burner, turned the heat up a little higher. “If that weren’t enough, it seems I’ve been dating her cousin.”

The demon raised his eyebrows. “Your boyfriend is connected to this ghost.”

“She’s been staying with him. At his house. Does that seem strange to you? I mean, does that seem…suspicious?”

“Yes.”

Gracey let her head fall back, eyes closed, as she breathed out in a loud, slow sigh. “That’s what I thought.” She picked up a knife, cut thin slices of beef. “I assume you’re going to stay for dinner.”

“Of course.”

Gracey grunted, threw the steak on the griddle. “Well, good. I may need your help. If it turns out…” Gracey shook her head, unable to finish the sentence.

But the demon understood. “You don’t want him to kill you.”

Gracey blinked. “Well…god! That’s not what I…” She shook her head again. “I don’t know. I suppose. Not that I think Simon would ever hurt me.”

“Why not?”

Gracey sighed. “Jesus, after all this time you’re still so not human. Because, Darkness, I think, in his way, that he loves me.”

“So why do you want me here?”

Now, Gracey did face the demon. She searched his face, looked deep into those sparkling black orbs in the middle of his face, and saw nothing of recognition or understanding. In all his time on earth, in Texas, he knew nothing of the human condition.

“Relationships are complicated,” she began, leaning against a counter, arms crossed over her chest. “And people are complicated. I don’t know what Simon does or doesn’t know about this woman who may or may not be a supernatural murderer. But if he knows…I just have no way of knowing what his role is in all of that. Why he’d tolerate it. Does she have something over him? Does he secretly….enjoy it?” She shuddered, shaking her head. “I just don’t know what will happen, Darkness. And although I don’t necessarily trust you, either…What I’m saying is, I don’t think Simon would ever hurt me. But plenty of men are wolves in sheep’s clothing. And I don’t want any nasty surprises.”

The demon wrinkled his brow. “Isn’t that what I said from the beginning?”

Gracey opened her mouth to answer just as the doorbell rang. She turned her head, shouted, “It’s open!” She was glad not to have to continue the conversation. Try as she might, she couldn’t really explain human relationships to the demon. Nothing she could say would ever make him understand. It something that had to be experienced, and yet, of course, the demon would never, could never, experience it. It was one of man recent truths she couldn’t reconcile.

She was drying her hands on her apron when Simon walked into the kitchen. The soles of his shoes had barely touched the linoleum when the demon stood, eyes darting back and forth between Gracey and her suitor. The demon raised a hand, pointing. “This is Simon?”

Gracey smiled, preparing to make some kind of introduction, when she noticed the look on Simon’s face. Eyes wide, lips pressed together, nostril’s flared, color draining from his face.

He was afraid. No, he was terrified.

Gracey blinked, trying to make sense of it. Yes, the Prime of Darkness was startling—the blue gray skin, the comic-inspired armor, the odd impassiveness of his face all contributed to unease in his presence. But he wasn’t imposing, not with his diminutive stature. And moreover, Love & War knew him. They’d seen him. And even those who hadn’t actually seen him had heard of him. In a town this size people talked. But after a year in their presence his status had dwindled. He was nothing more than a curio. So why was Simon looking at his with such abject horror?

Gracey cleared her throat. “Ah, Simon, this is my…this is Darkness. Darkness, this is Simon.”

Neither demon nor man budged. The demon glanced away from Simon’s face only briefly. “This is the Simon you were just speaking of, the one who loves you?”

Now, Gracey felt Simon’s horror reflected in her face. Mortal embarrassment colored her cheeks a deep crimson as she swallowed, stammered. “Um, well, this is my boyfriend, Simon St. Laine.”

The demon’s expression was incredulous. “That’s ridiculous,” he said.

Gracey balked. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s ridiculous,” he repeated. “If there’s any love between you it’s entirely one sided.”

Embarrassment gave way to anger as Gracey watched both men steadily, her hands clenching into fists. “Why would you say something like that, Darkness?”

The demon wasn’t much of a laugher, but his expression betrayed a certain kind of mirth as he said, “Because that isn’t a man, Gracey. That is a homunculus.”

The Prime of Darkness waited until the sun had completely disappeared from the desert sky before enshrouding himself in darkness and hauling the wood and rope out of Gracey’s garage to the side of her yard where the big oak tree waited patiently for him.

Materials in hand, the Prime of Darkness stood before the tree, looking up though its leaves to the glittering stars that peeked out from behind the tree’s foliage. How this oak had managed to thrive in the middle of the Chihuahuan desert baffled the demon. Was it the soft, dense undercurrent of magic that he felt circulating throughout the entire town that allowed this majestic tree to grow here amid the lechuguilla and mesquite? He could think of no reason for any kind magic to keep a tree alive, but he was wise enough to know that as much as he knew of the world, there was much he might never understand.

He’d visited Earth hundreds of times over the course of his ancient existence, but the demon had never before climbed a tree and was unsure how to begin. But the oak was knotty with dense bark and low-hanging branches, and after only a few unsuccessful starts, the demon soon found himself up in the tree, tying the ropes around one of the large branches, giving his knots a good, strong pull to test their strength.

The knots held. The demon grabbed the rope with both of his hands and then with his knees, wrapping his legs around it like a fireman on a pole, hanging on as though for dear life, his brow creased in concentration as he waited for gravity to do its worst.

But the rope held.

He smiled in satisfaction before he realized that suspended as he was from a rope twenty feet off the ground, he was quite unable to get down. He was a demon, but he was not superhuman, and the body that he currently wore was either not capable of pulling him back up to the branch or he simply lacked the know-how to tell the muscles how to make this feat happen. He unwound his legs from the rope, trying to throw them upward to latch onto the branch, but succeeded only in swinging to and fro like Tarzan. The best he could do was dangle from the tree branch like the sad remnants of a forgotten piñata.

The demon found this situation utterly unacceptable. And so with a sigh and bitter resolve, the demon simply let go.

It was a longer way down that it looked.

The ground rushed up to meet him, and he slammed into it with a jolt that shook his ankle and knee joints and he toppled to the ground. He groaned in pain, doubling over, hands clutching knees, grimacing into the darkness. How much longer would he have to endure this corporeal contraption?

Still, as long as he was burdened with the body, he might as well put it to use. He hauled himself up and brushed himself off. Grabbing the ropes in either hand and settling his backside onto the suspended plank of wood, the Prime of Darkness propelled himself forward, chest out, elbows back, a slow but steady beginning. Pumping his arms and legs, the demon pulled on the ropes, kicking his legs out, leaning backward to gain momentum. The swing picked up speed and height, and in a moment the demon was gliding through the air, full of grace, accompanied only by the low creak of the great oak branches and the silent trailing of his red cape.

From his bedroom window where Marco watched this glorious scene, the demon looked spectacularly like a superhero from a comic.

The boy smiled. He knew without needing to be told that the Prime of Darkness had built the swing for him.

Too excited to sleep, Marco arose early the next morning, quietly pulled on tennis shoes so as not to wake his brother, and dashed out the front door. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his pajamas. The night’s coolness had not yet been displaced by the irascible sun, and Marco’s skin pimpled over just a little as he darted across the street to the wooden swing newly dangling from Gracey’s oak tree.

It was a beautiful sight made the more glorious by his having seen the Prime of Darkness use it to fly through the air, his red cape streaming behind him like Superman himself. Marco envisioned himself similarly heroic as he positioned himself at the seat, which hung ever-so-slightly higher off the ground then was ideal for the boy. A clumsy but sufficient running start, and Marco jumped up, catching the edge of the swing seat with his butt and scooting backward until he was properly positioned. The swing’s ropes were long, and Marco was strong despite his skinny stature, and before long he was sailing high into the sky, head back and laughing, his red pajamas a smear of color across the golden desert horizon.

He swung with gleeful vigor until his thighs began to ache, and with reluctance he let his velocity slow. It was only when the swing had almost come to a stop that he noticed the Prime of Darkness sitting on the ground, his back propped against Gracey’s house, watching Marco with a soft smile.

“Do you like the swing?”

Marco grinned, nodding. “I’ve always wanted one,” he said. “But we don’t have a tree in our yard.”

The demon nodded. “I meant to build this for you a while ago. But time got away from me.”

Marco gave a carefree shrug. “My mother says that happens to grown ups. El tiempo vuela!” Marco kicked his feet, twisting the swing from side to side. “You put in the swing last night. I saw you.”

The demon narrowed his eyes at the boy. “You saw me last night?”

Marco grinned again, nodding. “I saw you swinging. You were great. Your cape was going like this.” Marco held his arms aloft at his sides, flapping them like a bird’s wings. “Like Superman.”

The demon shook his head. “You should not have been able to see me, Marco. I was supposed to be hidden.” He paused a moment and added, “But you can see things that other people can’t see, can’t you?”

Marco dropped his gaze, looking down at feet dangling just above the ground. “I guess so,” he said quietly. He shrugged his shoulders and when he looked up again, he was smiling, light dancing in his eyes. “I saw you fall out of the tree,” he said. “You shoulda just teleported.”

The demon raised an eyebrow, wondering first why he hadn’t thought of that himself, and then wondering how Marco knew about this ability. “You’ve seen me do that, too?”

Marco only shrugged.

The demon chose not to pursue this line of questioning. He had gathered all the information he needed for the moment. “You’re up early,” was all he said.

“I couldn’t wait to try the swing!”

The demon grinned—he never laughed—and Marco, having rested his legs sufficiently, began to swing again. “It’s a little bit too tall,” he complained genially.

“You’ll grow.”

“Did you ask Gracey before you hung this?”

“No.”

“Do you think she’ll get mad?”

“No.”

Marco laughed. “Me neither. I like Gracey. She’s awesome.”

The demon nodded. “I like Gracey, too.”

The demon was surprised at his own words, but now that they were spoken he couldn’t very well retrieve them. Not that it seemed to matter, as the boy had either not heard or not thought the statement particularly strange. And why should he? He supposed that to a young boy, it was obvious that a man—even a blue-skinned man who never changed his odd clothes—who perpetually appeared at a woman’s house would like that woman.

The demon frowned. If only reality were so neat and tidy.

“Who was the little girl you were playing with yesterday?”

Marco continued swinging, but his smile thinned and he didn’t meet the demon’s eyes. “What girl?”

“The girl with the pink shirt. I saw you with her yesterday.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Marco.” The demon sighed. “You saw me when you weren’t supposed to. And I saw your friend when no one else can. Some would say that makes us allies.”

“What’s allies mean?”

The demon decided to try a new tack. “You can invite her to play on the swing. I don’t think Gracey will mind.”

Marco seemed to consider this a moment. “Her name is Alma,” he said. “She’s my friend.”

“How do you know her?”

“I just know her. How do you know Gracey?”

The demon admired the boy’s spitfire, and was in no mood to enter a pissing content with a little kid, so he let the situation be. At least Marco now had an opening to talk about the invisible little girl when—and if—he wanted to.

Her armload of laundry quite forgotten, Gracey watched Marco swinging from the little window of her laundry room. It was just after 6 AM; she’d come home from the bakery to unload the laundry machine, sure that Tiny couldn’t be relied upon to do it, and she needed a fresh blouse for tonight’s date with Simon. Mitsuo was alone at the shop, and while Gracey was sure of the boy’s capabilities, he suffered from typical teenaged lack of self-confidence. Gracey didn’t want to leave him long, but the scene before her caught her rapt attention.

She’d known nothing of the demon’s intention to hang the swing and had not seen him do it, so its appearance was as mystifying as it was wonderful. She watched Marco swing with expert grace, babbling to someone Gracey could not see. She assumed he was talking with this invisible friend, for she couldn’t see the demon who sat just beneath her window.

She should have thought to hang a swing for Marco ages ago. The boy frequently assaulted her porch swing with or without an invitation. And he was such a loner. The swing would undoubtedly provide him a needed respite. Why hadn’t she thought of it?

She opened the lid of the dryer, throwing the clothes into the machine with a small grunt. She closed the lid, turned the machine on, and left the laundry room. She walked through the kitchen and down the hallway toward her bedroom.

But as she walked through the hallways, something pricked at the back of her brain. She stopped, looking at the line of grave stone rubbings Tiny had made when she’d first moved to town. She examined the names: Rose McGovern Allen, Mark Carlton Howard, Minerva Katherine Auckland.

Gracey’s breath caught in her throat as she read and re-read the third name that adorned her wall. She knew she’d heard it before, knew it wasn’t a name that Marco should have wielded so easily. Of course, Tiny had taken the rubbing from the graves in the Love & War cemetery, and Marco had admitted to playing in the cemetery every now and then, but it seemed strange to her that he should lift such a name from his memory with such ease. It didn’t fit.

Did it?

She thought back to the day before, to the Prime of Darkness saying that Marco had been playing with a little girl that Gracey couldn’t see. She’d suspected there was something special about Marco for some time, but she didn’t know much about the paranormal, her associations with angels and demons to the contrary. She had no idea what else lurked out there in the great beyond, had no idea what Marco’s abilities meant or what he could do.

Or why he’d asked her if Minerva Katherine Auckland had “gotten” Audra Fairgood.

A thought struck her that made her blood run cold. Could Marco see ghosts? Could that be why he played in the cemetery? Was the little girl Gracey couldn’t see the spirit of a deceased child? But he’d told her that there was no such thing as ghosts.

Gracey smiled to herself. Of course he’d said that. He’d said it as much to convince himself as her. She’d done such a thing herself as a child.

She could just go ask him. But what if she were wrong? She didn’t want to spook the poor kid. But as she stared at the grave rubbing before her eyes, she began to feel a sense of urgency coiling up in the pit of her stomach. For some reason, this was important. She needed to know what Marco knew.

The air conditioner was definitely broken.

Gracey cursed inwardly and made a mental note to call the service company first thing Monday morning. The godforsaken air conditioner broke ever year at the height of summer, no matter how religiously she maintained the unit. She supposed it might be time to replace it altogether, but  installing new appliances was a hassle. She didn’t love the idea of having strangers out to her home.

After all, she never knew when the Prime of Darkness was going to show up, and he was always more than a little difficult to explain.

Changing out of a damp t-shirt into a tank top, Gracey poured herself a glass of iced tea and made for the front porch. It wasn’t any cooler outside, of course, but she reasoned that if she were going to sit around sweating she might as well do so while getting a bit of fresh air. Besides, she enjoyed putting the ceiling fan to good use.

It was warmer outside than she’d hoped. Sighing, Gracey flipped on the overhead fan, plopped down on the porch swing, one leg tucked underneath her while she gave herself a little push with the other. The chains creaked and floorboards groaned. Gracey wondered if it might be time to try another diet. Maybe South Beach this time.

“Morning, sugar!”

Gracey leaned forward, smiled to see her friend Bibi Armstrong walking up her driveway, rivulets of sweat running down the sides of her face. “Don’t tell me you walked over here,” Gracey scolded. “It’s too hot for that!”

Bibi waved the concern away. “I’m too old to worry about what’s gonna kill me,” she said with her usual wry disregard for conventional wisdom. “Something’s gonna do me in one day. Besides, it’d be a sin to drive over here. It ain’t like you’re miles away.”

That was true enough. With the entire country gone crazy about “going green”, Gracey could certainly see her friend’s point, even if she herself wasn’t so sure she’d trade a brisk, air conditioned drive for a healthful walk in the 100+ degree heat. Though maybe if she did, she wouldn’t need South Beach after all.

Gracey frowned. It was a lose-lose situation.

Bibi came up the porch steps, and Gracey scooted over to make room for her friend on the swing. She winked at Gracey and lowered her voice. “I think I saw Marco skulking around your bushes,” she said, waving her hand toward the front of the porch Gracey couldn’t see from her perch.

Gracey cocked her eyebrows, called out. “Marco?”

A brown, scruffy head popped up over the porch railing, a timid smile revealing handsome, crooked teeth. “Hi, Gracey,” he said, cheeks rosy with sun and bashfulness.

“What are you doing down there?”

“Waitin’ for you.”

“Waiting for me to do what?”

“Come outside. So I could get my pie. You said. And Mama said I couldn’t ring your doorbell to ask for it.”

Gracey chuckled and beckoned for Marco to come up on the porch. He scrambled up, still smiling. “Well, in that case, I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Tell you what. Go on inside and get yourself some pie. I’ve got apple and cherry. Get whatever you want and a glass of milk and bring it out here and sit with me and Bibi. Can you do that?”

Marco’s eyes brightened as he bobbed his head up and down. He held up a finger. “I’ll be right back,” he said, darting into the house.

When Marco was out of earshot, Bibi squeezed Gracey’s arm. “You should have kids,” she said.

Here we go, Gracey thought, biting her tongue to keep from saying something she’d regret.  After all, Bibi was her friend, not her mother, and her intentions and motivations were completely different than Annette’s. Gracey knew that at thirty, she was expected to have children, especially in a family town like Love & War. She also knew that Bibi, who loved her a great deal, couldn’t have children of her own and was only projecting her own desires onto Gracey. She knew that these words, though portending a guilt trip when uttered by one’s maternal unit, were meant only as inspiration coming from Bibi.

Still, they stung. The lack of children in the Daylittle home was a sore circumstance, though Gracey had never discussed that situation with anyone. Not even Bibi.

Gracey shrugged. “Well, I think I’d like to. Just haven’t had the opportunity. Never could hang on to a guy for long enough.”

For a fleeting moment she thought of Gabe, snatched away from her before they’d even begun their lives together. After all these years, the memory was still a dull pain.  And then, without warning, Gracey found herself thinking of the magician, Simon St. Laine. Did he want to have kids? Would he make a good father?

Gracey’s breath caught in her throat as she realized what she was thinking. They hadn’t been dating long. Marriage wasn’t anywhere on the table, or even underneath the table as far as she could tell. Still, it wasn’t her fault if she secretly hoped it was the direction they could be heading. She wasn’t getting any younger, and Simon was handsome and caring. She imagined he would make a very good partner.

She blushed, forced herself to stop thinking about Simon before Bibi noticed and intruded on her thoughts. She wasn’t ready to discuss this particular train of thought with anyone just yet.

At that moment, Marco came outside, letting the screen door slam behind him. His mouth made an o shape in surprise as he carried his plate of pie—he’d helped himself to a slice of each—and a tall, plastic cup of milk to the swing. He squeezed in between Bibi and Gracey.

As Marco began shoveling pie in his mouth, Bibi reached over and mussed he boy’s hair. “I heard they found the Fairgood girl.”

Gracey’s head snapped up, her heart seeming to freeze in her chest. “Dead?”

Bibi made a face, motioning at Marco over the boy’s head where he couldn’t see. “Good Lord, Gracey, no! Why on Earth would you say that?”

A wave of relief washed over her even as a healthy dose of guilt hit her for saying something so macabre in front of Marco. Something deep inside her broke as she choked back a sob, hand covering her mouth. Ever since she’d realized the connection between all the recent deaths, she hadn’t believed that anyone would ever see Audra Fairgood alive again.  She was incredibly glad to be wrong. “My god,” she said, blinking back nascent tears. “When? Is she all right? What happened?”

Bibi shrugged, nodded. “She got home late last night. Apparently she’d gone up to Midland to stay with her daddy. He didn’t know that Shira was out of the loop.”

Gracey’s expression clouded with confusion. “Her daddy? I thought Aleister…?”

Bibi chuckled, shaking her head. “Aww, sugar, I love that you ain’t never been much on gossip. Otherwise you’da heard long ago that Aleister wasn’t the girl’s daddy. Folks don’t talk too much about it anymore, but it was a big to-do when it happened, since Shira and Aleister were married at the time. You have to respect a man who’d take care of another man’s child and wouldn’t let loose a cheating wife. He was a good man. A good man,” Bibi said, melancholy and nostalgia rich in her voice.

Gracey said nothing as she mulled over the news. If Audra Fairgood wasn’t Aleister’s natural daughter and wasn’t a natural-born Fairgood, that fact might have saved her from whatever curse had befallen the founding families. Was that possible, or was the whole thing just a coincidence? Was the terror over, or was it still waiting out there, ready to claim more lives at a moment’s notice?

“You okay, sugar? You look a little pale.”

Gracey feigned a small smile, shooing away her friend’s worry. “Oh, I’m fine, I’m just glad to hear Audra’s home safe. I thought…”

“You thought Minerva Katherine Auckland got her?”

Marco had been so quiet during the whole exchange that the women had assumed he wasn’t paying them any attention, so his interruption surprised them both. Gracey looked down at him, smiling. “Who’s that, honey? That a super villain in one of your comics?

Marco’s forehead creased as he swallowed his pie, shaking his head. “Not from my comics,” he said. “Minerva Katherine Auckland. You thought she got Audra Fairgood, didn’t you?”

Gracey didn’t know what Marco was talking about, of course, but something about the conversation sent chills down her spine all the same. Minerva Katherine Auckland. It wasn’t anyone she knew, no one who lived in town, and yet the name was familiar for some reason. A character in a children’s book, perhaps? A movie character? She searched the pages of her memory, flipping through them for an image or a lyric she could hold onto, something that might pin a face to the name, but nothing came to her. She would have to google the name later.

“Well, thank God Shira got her daughter back,” Gracey said, “though I can’t imagine what she went through having to tell her daughter about Aleister.”

Bibi whistled, giving a slow shake of her head. “Fate I wouldn’t wish on nobody,” she agreed.

Comfortable silence settled between them as Marco finished his pie, Gracey and Bibi keeping the porch swing in motion with a gentle push of their toes. Although the fan whirred busily overhead, it offered little relief from the sweltering heat, and under other circumstances, three bodies on a porch swing might have been too much. But at that moment, closeness was a commodity. It made them feel safe.

“I guess I best get going,” Bibi said after a while, pushing herself up out of the swing with a gentle groan. “I got a bunch of vegetables from my garden I gotta take down to the Badlands. Plus I gotta put some more pink dye in that Japanese girl’s hair today,” she said.

Gracey smiled. “You’re a good head, Beatriz.”

Bibi waved away the compliment with a frown. “I’m a sucker with no business sense,” she said. But Gracey knew she didn’t mean it. She was well aware how much Bibi loved lending a helping hand.

“Okay, I’m done. I’m going home, too,” Marco said, hopping off the swing. He pushed his plate and cup into Gracey’s hands. “Thank you for the pie, Gracey. Can I come back tomorrow and have some more?”

Gracey chuckled, nodding. “As long as it’s okay with your mama,” she said. “You can have as much pie as I can make.”

She watched him scamper off, the heels of his sneakers kicking up dust as he made his way down the drive and across the street. When he was safely inside, Gracey stood, stretched, walking languidly back into her house, content now with the knowledge of Audra Fairgood’s safety, even though small doubts and fears still nibbled at her like a hesitant mouse.

She deposited Marco’s dishes in the sink, absently wiping down the counter where he’d spilled a few drops of milk and left a trail of crumbs. What was that name he’d mentioned earlier that seemed so strange? Minerva Something? She rinsed off the rag, wringing it out as she frowned, deep in thought, wracking her brain for the tickle she felt when the name filtered through her mind. She did know it from somewhere. From somewhere strange. From somewhere she wouldn’t expect and eight-year-old boy to reference. But where?

She blinked, shook her head, shaking herself out of her thoughts. She couldn’t remember. She knew if she stopped thinking about it for a while, it would come to her on its own later.

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, and Gracey planted herself in its beam, ambivalent to its warmth, but smiling as she looked out across the street. Marco, who was not one to be easily contained (she supposed that was an indigenous quality of most eight-year-old boys), had come back outside, was playing in the yellow-and-brown grass that constituted the Esquivel lawn. He was normally animated, but now he was speaking loudly and gesturing to someone who was not there, and Gracey’s smile widened, remembering the entourage of invisible friends she’d amassed in her own childhood.

“What are you doing?”

Yelping in surprise, Gracey spun on her heel to find the Prime of Darkness standing in the doorway, filling it up, his head cocked lazily to one side, a puzzled expression on his face. Gracey shut her eyes, opened them, taking in a breath. “I’ve asked you a million times not to sneak up on me like that,” she said, her voice unsteady. “You scared the shit outta me.”

“Sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t my intention. I was just curious about whatever it was you were looking at.”

Gracey stepped to one side, a wordless invitation for the demon to sidle up beside her. She pointed to the window, indicating the scene across the street. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just watching Marco play with his imaginary friend. Brings back memories.”

The Prime of Darkness said nothing, his mouth settling into a perfect line as he joined Gracey in watching the boy across the street. Then, “Why do you call his friend imaginary?”

It was Gracey’s turn to look confused. “Because it isn’t real. Kids do that, sometimes. They invent a friend when there’s no one to play with. That’s why it’s called imaginary.”

The demon gave her a disdainful look. “I know what imaginary means,” he said.

She blushed. “Right. Sorry.”

The Prime of Darkness returned his gaze to the boy across the street. “Are both of the children playing with the imaginary friend?”

“Both what children? I’m just talking about Marco. He’s over there playing by himself.”

The Prime of Darkness furrowed his brow. “No, he isn’t. There’s a little girl playing with him.”

Gracey turned slowly, her eyes taking in the demon’s facial expression. As far as she knew, he wasn’t able to joke, or lie, or exaggerate. But there was no one else on the Esquivel lawn. Marco was alone. “Darkness…you see Marco with another child?”

The demon nodded. “Yes. A little girl. Short, brown hair. Pink shirt. Looks the same age as he is. You don’t see her?”

Gracey looked again, but there was absolutely no one with Marco. Either the demon was lying, seeing things, or… “That’s impossible,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t see anyone. I don’t see anyone at all!”

The demon shrugged. “There’s probably a great deal in your world that you cannot see that I can,” he said. “What’s interesting isn’t that you can’t see her, but that that little boy can.”

She was about to ask the demon what he meant by that, but when she turned to him, he had gone, leaving only a chill in the air and an impression of undulating shadows in her peripheral vision to indicate that he had ever been there at all.

She drew in a deep, steadying breath, and looked back out the window. She saw the Esquivel’s front door swinging shut. Marco had gone back inside.

She seemed to be attending a lot of funerals lately.

Too many.

The evening was still as the very Earth seemed to hold its breath out of respect for the dead. The funeral had been over for the better part of an hour, but Gracey lingered behind, moving slowly down the graveyard’s rows, walking a labyrinth whose passages only she could see. It was a lonely ritual born of confusion, deep grief, and the question that had gnawed at the back of her mind since she’d heard the disquieting news: Where was Audra Fairgood?

The girl had been missing ever since the night Aleister had been discovered dead in his bedroom.  According to local gossip Gracey had been unable to avoid, Audra and her mother had had an argument and Audra had left the house in a fury. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, apparently. Friends of the family indicated that Audra was prone to spending the night with friends when she and her mother fought, but she’d never been gone more than an evening.

Audra Fairgood had now been missing for a week.

Gracey’s flesh pimpled over as she thought of the missing girl and the mother who had lost her husband. She’d watched Shira Fairgood surreptitiously from the corner of her eye—she supposed they all had. She’d seen the way the woman sat, expressionless, red, unblinking eyes unseeing, vacant. She’d watched Nora Goldman hold her daughter’s hand, the solid rock around which everything else crumbled. There they sat in the middle of the storm, a missing daughter and a dead husband. People would talk. In a town this size, they always did.

Gracey shivered despite the heat. So much anguish. So much guilt. So many unanswered questions.

Shaking herself out of her morbid thoughts, Gracey looked up to see Marco Flores skipping toward her at a fast clip, hand raised in the air. He was still wearing the dress shirt and trousers he’d worn to the funeral, but he’d shed the heavy jacket and removed his sock and shoes. His clip-on tie dangled from a pocket. As he came closer, Gracey could see he was clutching a large bottle of bubbles in one hand. In the other he held a bright yellow bubble wand high in the air, giggling as the ephemeral spheres blew daintily into existence and floated slowly skyward.

“What are you doing out here, Marco?” Gracey asked with a smile. Something about the boy always lightened her mood. She was glad to see him. Her mood needed lightening.

“Blowing bubbles,” he said. “What are you doing out here, Gracey?”

It was a fair question. She’d been walking the cemetery grounds for long enough now that her legs, unused to exercise, had begun to tingle uncomfortably. But she’d come to no conclusions, and no answers had deigned to descend upon her. “Just thinking,” she admitted, arms wrapped tightly over her chest. “It’s quiet here. I needed to be alone.” She hadn’t realized the truth of this statement until she’d made it.

“Want me to leave you alone?”

Gracey admired the boy’s respect for her feelings and found his presence comforting. “No. I like having you around,” she said, smiling.

Marco nodded, an innocent wisdom flickering behind his bright, brown eyes. “I try to be alone sometimes. But sometimes it doesn’t always work.” He looked over his shoulder, frowned.

“Does your mom know you’re here?”

Marco shook his head. “No, but she doesn’t care. I’m allowed to come to the cemetery whenever I want.”

Gracey lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “Do you come here often?”

Marco donned a sheepish expression, looked briefly off to the side, avoiding Gracey’s eyes. “Well…not so much anymore,” he said. “But I do sometimes. When it’s not scary.”

The boy’s purity and candor brought a small smile to Gracey’s lips. “How’s your mom? She doing okay?”

Marco shrugged. “She’s sad a lot,” he admitted. “She’s scared something bad’s gonna happen. A lot of people have died. She’s at home right now making salsa and crying.”

Marco lifted the bubble wand to his lips and blew slowly, making a large, heavy bubble that wobbled in the air and began to fall instead of rise. Marco bent his knees and positioned himself beneath the bubble, poked out his tongue until the bubble landed on it, sat a moment, and popped. Marco grinned at Gracey, awaiting her approval.

“Yech,” she said, making a face. “You know bubbles are made out of soap,” she said. “You just ate soap.”

The boy shrugged, dipping the wand once again into the bubble fluid. “It doesn’t taste too bad. Didn’t you ever get your mouth washed out with soap when you were little?”

“Of course not. I never use foul language,” she answered with a prim smile.

But Marco wasn’t persuaded. “That’s a lie. I heard you say shit before,” he said.

“Marco!”

“What! I did!”

Gracey chuckled, shaking her head. “That may be true, Marco, but that doesn’t mean you should say it.”

“I’m allowed to say bad words,” Marco said.

Gracey doubted very much that this was true, but decided not to pursue the matter.

As she began walking again, Marco kept pace beside her, blowing his bubbles and shuffling his bare feet in the dirt. Occasionally he would stop and cock his head to the side as if listening and then would resume his childish ambling. A few times he muttered something under his breath, but when Gracey asked him to repeat what he’d said, he ignored her. Sometimes he would sing a few notes of a song Gracey didn’t know, and sometimes he would laugh. It was unnerving, perhaps, but he was a child, and she supposed children did those things. She wished she knew for certain, but she’d had so little occasion to be with children.

She pushed that thought out of her mind.

But pondering the ways of children brought Gracey’s attention full circle, and once again Audra Fairgood was at the forefront of her brain. Wherever Audra was, was she safe? Was she alone? Was she scared or suffering? Had she gone away of her own accord or had she been taken? This last thought Gracey could scarcely bear—Audra was no more than thirteen, a mere slip of a girl, and though Gracey didn’t know her well, her heart broke each and every time the watery memory of Audra’s face swam before Gracey’s mind’s eye.

She couldn’t imagine the horror Shira Fairgood was living with.

“Where’s your brother, Marco?” Gracey asked. They had fully circumambulated the cemetery, and were once again on its northernmost edge, the oldest part of the cemetery. It was also the most beautiful; most of the graves were still tended with real flowers left by family members and loved ones, not the gaudy, plastic flowers the cemetery attendants left on the newer graves. Holes in the the crumbling stone walls served as tiny shrines within which pieces of hard candy and colored candles whose glass containers bore the faces of saints were placed. When Tiny had first moved to Love & War she’d spent many hours amid the old graves with paper and wax, taking rubbings of the headstones. The rubbings were framed and hanging in the hallways in Gracey’s home.

“I don’t know,” Marco said, stopping to scratch his foot. “I guess he went home with Mother. He’s afraid of the graveyard.”

“Aren’t you afraid of the graveyard?”

It was a moment before Marco answered. “Yes and no,” he said. “I’m not scared of it during the day. But at night…” His voice trailed off, and Gracey thought she saw a small shiver. “But Alma says I got nothing to be afraid of. She says ghosts are not real.”

“Who’s Alma?”

Marco shrugged, indicating the question’s small importance. “Just my friend,” he said.

Gracey, who, given her unusual circumstances and intimate awareness of the occult, had reason to believe in ghosts, also believed in white lies, especially where children and their innocence were concerned. “Well, Alma’s right,” she said. “There are no such things as ghosts, and graveyards are nothing to be afraid of. Still, I do think it’s a place where you should be respectful. Do you understand that?”

Marco was watching Gracey with unblinking eyes. “Yes. Is bare feet not respectful?”

Gracey smiled. “I think bare feet are okay.”

“And bubbles?”

Gracey’s smiled widened and she put her hand on Marco’s head, mussing his hair. “I think bubbles are probably okay, too. After all, bubbles are very beautiful.”

Smiling, Marco retrieved the wand from the plastic container and blew another stream of bubbles. They floated slowly on the still air, catching unseen currents and drifting away toward a darkening sky.

Gracey watched the bubbles float away, noting the reflections they carried across the graveyard. Here they hovered over Buddy Heffman’s grave, there over the graves of Carmen and David Olaya. And now they lingered over the fresh grave of Aleister Fairgood.

Gracey’s heart froze in her chest.

Mentally, she conjured up all the people who had died recently. Rubio Bautista. Buddy Heffman. Carmen and David Olaya. Aleister Fairgood. They did all have something in common. Fear gripped her and pushed her forward, quickening her feet as she moved through the northern end of the cemetery, noting the family names on the headstones. They were all there: Heffman. Bautista. Olaya. Fairgood. The northern part of the cemetery had seen five new graves in a short amount of time.

The south end of the graveyard—the newer end—had seen none.

Gracey closed her eyes against the realization. The founding families. Only members of the founding families of Love & War had died.

Murdered, Gracey thought suddenly. These people were murdered.

Gracey’s throat went dry and her breathing became ragged. She didn’t want to believe it. Yes, Buddy Heffman’s death was questionable at best, and Aleister Fairgood had certainly been a victim of an attack. But Rubio Bautista’s death had been ruled a suicide, and Carmen and David Olaya had died in a car accident.

The logic was sound, the evidence incontrovertible. And yet Gracey knew with steely certainty that penetrated every fiber of her being that all five citizens of Love & War had been murdered.

The realization made her dizzy with fear.

Steadying herself, Gracey knelt in front of Marco, placed her hands on his arms, caught his gaze. “Marco,” she said, her voice faltering only just, “I want you to go home now. Go on home and hug your mom. I bet she misses you. You can come over tomorrow and have pie,” she amended, just in case the boy wondered if he’d done something wrong.

At the mention of pie, Marco’s eyes lit up and he nodded a hurried agreement before running off down the street toward his home. Gracey stood alone in the graveyard amongst the tombstones, a numbing cold boring into her bones even as beads of sweat dotted her brow.

It was only a moment before Gracey realized that Audra Fairgood was the last birth member of the Fairgood clan, one of the founding families of Love & War.

Her vision was blurred by tears as she ran for home.

The bakery was quiet as afternoon melted into evening, and though the sun still hung high in the sky, Gracey could feel quitting time in her bones. She glanced at the clock; six o’clock. She removed her apron, shook her hair free from its scarf, and flipped the ovens off. Stretching her arms over her head, she smiled to herself, ready to close up shop and spend the rest of the evening with a bottle of wine and good company. Tiny was taking herself to a movie in Placerita, so Gracey had invited Simon over for television watching and, with any luck, cuddling.

She blushed at the thought of it.

As she was wiping down the counter, the bell over the front door tinkled, and Gracey looked up to see a smiling Nora Goldman entering the shop, face creased with a thousand wrinkles, hair a fluffy white halo about her head. Mrs. Goldman had to be in her eighties, and she’d been a regular at the bakery since its inception. Gracey grinned at the sight of her.

“Howdy, stranger,” Gracey teased, arms akimbo as she gave the older woman a warm smile. “Haven’t seen you in a while. You been on a diet?”

Mrs. Goldman clucked her teeth, a rosy blush coloring her cheeks. “Nothing like that, sweetheart. At my age you have to appreciate all God has to offer and that includes pie! I was out of town for a while, staying with my sister in Austin. Her husband passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Gracey said, but Mrs. Goldman waved the sentiment away. “Old people die, that’s just the way it is. Have to make room for the new generation.”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” Gracey admitted, “but when someone you love dies, that’s pretty cold comfort.”

Mrs. Goldman gave a brief nod, then her face brightened. “I need a pie for my granddaughter’s husband,” she said, changing the subject. “I know it’s short notice, but my memory isn’t what he used to be and the anniversary slipped my mind. It’s his birthday, and I happen to know that your chocolate pecan is his favorite. Do you happen to have any?”

Gracey dried her hands, pulled a collapsed rectangle of cardboard off the shelf. “I’ve got some,” she said, manipulating the cardboard into a pie-size box. “I have two; would you like them both?”

Mrs. Goldman shook her head. “One ought to be good enough; my granddaughter is always watching her weight,” she said, disdain flickering across her face. “Shira’s skinny as a willow as it is; what is it with young girls and their silly ideals of beauty these days?”

Gracey, who wore an extra fifteen pounds around her hips and suspected women had long held silly ideas of beauty, could only chuckle. “If she were happy with her weight, she’d find something else to be unhappy with,” Gracey said. “That’s just how we women are.”

Mrs. Goldman shared in the laughter. “That is the truth, though, isn’t it, sweetheart? I could do with a sight fewer wrinkles myself.”

Gracey grinned,  pulled the pie from the refrigerator and slid it carefully into the box. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

A small look of embarrassment passed over Mrs. Goldman’s face as she wrung her hands nervously. “Actually, I do have on other request, sweetheart, if it isn’t too much trouble. I normally wouldn’t ask it of you but I have a ladies’ auxiliary meeting today and I’m running late as it is. I wondered if you wouldn’t mind taking the pie over to Shira’s house tonight? If it isn’t too much trouble,” she repeated.

As far as Gracey knew, the Goldmans were the only Jewish family in Love & War, and Mrs. Goldman served on the auxiliary board of Temple Beth Shalom in Fort Stockton, the closest temple but still a good forty minute drive from their town. She glanced up at the clock; it was only a few minutes after six. Simon wasn’t coming over until seven, the house was already clean, and Shira and Aleister Fairgood’s house was only a few minutes from Gracey’s.

“I’ll take it over there right now,” Gracey said as she collected the cash for the pie.

Mrs. Goldman took Gracey’s hand in her own, squeezing softly. “Thank you, dear. Please tell my granddaughter that I expect a phone call this week; it’s been too long since she’s indulged an old woman’s ramblings.”

Like most of the other families in Love & War, the Fairgoods kept a modest property, a lawn more weed than grass, a front porch in a moderate state of disrepair. As Gracey pulled into the driveway, she noted two trucks parked outside the garage. Shira Fairgood worked on and off as a substitute elementary school teacher, and Aleister worked in Placertia as a cable repair man, but it appeared they were both home. Pie in tow, Gracey marched up the porch steps and rang the doorbell.

No one answered.

She knocked. When she got no response, she pressed her ear to the door, listening for movement. Nothing. She tried the doorknob and, finding the door unlocked, she pushed it open slowly. “Hello? Y’all home? It’s Gracey Daylittle from Want Some Pie? Bakery. Nora sent me.”

Silence.

Gracey considered her options. Both cars were in the driveway and the front door was unlocked, indicating that the Fairgoods were probably home. Still, if it was Aleister’s birthday, the couple could be engaged in private birthday shenanigans that Gracey sorely wouldn’t want to interrupt; the very thought made her blush.

Door open behind her, Gracey took a tentative step inside. “Shira? Aleister? Y’all here?” Gracey vaguely remembered a daughter, but couldn’t remember her name.

The house was still, and Gracey didn’t want to take the pie home with her. She figured she could leave it in the refrigerator with a note explaining where it had come from. Her mind made up, she pulled the front door closed, waited a heartbeat more for someone to make themselves known. She’d never been in the Fairgood house, and she was keenly aware of her status as an intruder as she tiptoed her way into what she thought must be the kitchen.

As she rounded the corner, she stepped into a brightly lit kitchenette, satisfied with her home navigation skills and almost tripped over Shira Fairgood.

Shira was huddled on the linoleum, knees pulled into her chest, arms wrapped about her legs. Her eyes were wide and unseeing as she rocked back and forth, her lips moving as if to whimper but no sound escaped. Her face was white as a ghost. Gracey set the pie on the floor placed both her hands on Shira’s shoulders, giving her a small shake. “Shira? Shira, honey, are you all right? Look at me.” Gracey placed her fingers under the woman’s chin, turned her head. But Shira’s eyes did not blink, did not move, did not register Gracey’s presence. She was utterly catatonic.

Heart beating wildly in her chest, Gracey jumped to her feet, knowing she had to search. “Aleister?” He or the daughter had to be here somewhere. Even as she pushed herself through the house, she didn’t want to know, oh God, she didn’t want to know whatever had forced Shira into that state of shock. “Aleister? You here?” She ran into the adjacent dining room, into the living room, down the hallway, into the guest bathroom, a child’s bedroom, and finally crossed the threshold into the master bedroom where she drew up short, covered her mouth with both hands and let loose a wild, ear-piercing scream.

Aleister Fairgood was propped up on the bed, head lolling to one side, the front of his clothes saturated with blood.

A black maw just underneath the ridge of his brow sent thin tendrils of white smoke up to the ceiling. His eyes had been burned out of his face.

Gracey turned and vomited on the carpet.

She’d managed to make the necessary phone call and it was only a matter of minutes before an ambulance and the sheriff’s department arrived, perimeters were taped off, and onlookers began amassing. Gracey was sitting on the front porch; someone had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She watched as a couple of paramedics loaded Shira into an ambulance, took her vitals, placed an oxygen mask over her face. She had recovered from her stupefied state and was crying now, nearly hyperventilating. The paramedics were trying to calm her. They were giving her water, drugs. People with notepads were asking questions. Everything was happening in slow motion, underwater.

“Gracey?”

The voice rippled through her, yanking her out of the nightmare. She looked up, saw Simon’s tired, worry-creased face looking down at her. In a moment he was crouching, at her side, and Gracey felt the internal dam break, tears rushing out of her as she pressed herself against Simon, sobbing.

He stroked her hair, her back, saying nothing, letting her cry until she was empty. He wiped her eyes, her nose, held her close to his body. When the sobs subsided, she said, “It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen, Simon. How could anyone do that? How could anyone hurt another human being like that?”

Simon said nothing. He held her for a long time.

A deputy approached, tipped his hat at Gracey. “I’m sorry to bother you after such a traumatic event, ma’am, but I’m gonna have to ask you some questions.”

She had known it was coming, of course. She’d been the one to find the body, the one to report the crime. Still, she didn’t want to relive it, didn’t want to remember any of it. She just wanted to go to sleep, to wake up and find none of this had ever really happened.

“Has anybody seen the daughter? The Fairgoods have a little girl, I think?” Gracey’s stomach rolled with the realization that the little girl would come home to find that her daddy had died. Thank God she hadn’t been the one to find him. Gracey thought she might be sick again.

The deputy nodded. “Somebody’s looking into it,” he said. He looked at Simon, cleared his throat. “Would you mind excusing us for a bit? I need to interview Miss Daylittle in private.”

Simon looked to Gracey. “Will you be all right?”

She gave a wordless nod, her eyes full of gratitude. He kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be just over there if you need me.”

She watched him walk away, and when he was out of earshot, the deputy cleared his throat again, ready to get down to business. Gracey returned her attention to him reluctantly. “I need you to start at the beginning. Why were you over to the Fairgood place?”

With quivering voice and frequent pauses to steady her nerves, Gracey recounted the events leading up the discovery of the body: Mrs. Goldman buying the pie. Gracey making the delivery. Finding Shira in shock on the floor. Finding the body sitting up in the bed.

“Does Mrs. Goldman frequently ask you to do favors for her?”

The question caught Gracey off guard. “No,” she admitted. “This was the first time.”

“Did you think the request was odd?”

Gracey shook her head. “Mrs. Goldman is old,” she said, as though that itself were plenty explanation.

The deputy seemed to think a moment, scratching his head. Then, “You didn’t see nobody suspicious around here, did you? Anybody shouldn’t have had no business here?”

Gracey shrugged. “I didn’t notice anything out of place, but then I wasn’t looking.”

The deputy tried again. “You didn’t see a … strange lookin’ fella, about yea tall, dresses in a funny costume? Has some sort of a…skin problem?”

The image the deputy painted formed perfectly in Gracey’s mind’s eye. The Prime of Darkness. Gracey’s eyes flew open even as her heart sank. Why would the deputy ask about the demon? Had he been implicated in some way? Was it possible he’d been involved? She recalled her conversation with Lakmei in the graveyard, the angel’s assertion that the demon hadn’t been involved in the recent death of Buddy Heffman.

Had probably not been involved.

“No,” Gracey said, surprised at how level her voice came out. “Certainly not.”

The deputy snapped his notebook shut, pulled a card from his front shirt pocket. “If you think of anything else you let me know. Don’t matter if you think it’s important; you let me decide.” His smug grin made Gracey’s skin crawl. She closed her fingers around the card, certain she wouldn’t have need of it.

“One last thing, Miss Daylittle,” he said. “We’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell nobody what you saw in there. After what happened with Rubio Bautista, we don’t need no serial killer hysteria going around. Got it?”

The words rang through her, stilled her to the core. Rubio Bautista. Serial killer. The deputy hadn’t mentioned Buddy Heffman, but after seeing with her own eyes a reality frighteningly similar to the rumors about Buddy’s demise, Gracey began to link these deaths in her mind. Rubio Bautista. Buddy Heffman. Aleister Fairgood. Three men murdered. Why? What was the common thread?

As the deputy walked away, Gracey’s mind filled with questions. Why had he asked about the Prime of Darkness? It wouldn’t be the first time the demon had been implicated in a crime; Gracey knew first-hand that Darkness was capable of murder. But she didn’t think he had anything to do with this. He couldn’t.

Could he?

Simon appeared by her side again, and Gracey pushed all the thoughts of Darkness out of her mind. The magician took Gracey’s hand, entwined his fingers with hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “Let’s get you home,” he said. “You probably need the rest.”

Overwhelming gratitude flooded her, and once again Gracey felt on the verge of breakdown. She looked into Simon’s eyes and saw her own sadness reflected back at her, and her heart skipped a beat. Two. As Simon helped her to her feet, Gracey was amazed at the depth of the magician’s empathy, that he could feel such grief on her behalf. Her own mother hadn’t been able to do that, had pushed Gracey out when she’d needed her the most. Thinking of her mother, and how much more caring Simon was, Gracey’s heart swelled and she had to bite back her tears. She clung to the magician like a child as he led her down the road towards home.

“Oh my God, Gracey. You’re completely crushed out.”

Gracey looked up from her newspaper and offered her sister an innocent look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tiny, ambling into the kitchen in her nightie, motioned toward the vase of pink peonies on the kitchen table. “What’s with the flowers? You’ve got them in here, in the bathroom…where did you even find peonies this time of year?”

Gracey shrugged, looking back down at her newspaper to hide her grin. “Simon left them.”

Tiny raised an eyebrow. “Simon left them,” she repeated.

Gracey bit her lip, pretended to be reading. “I found them on the porch this morning when I set the pie out to cool. Oh, there’s cranberry apple fig on the counter.”

Tiny shuffled to the sideboard, pulled a plate from the cupboard. “You had time to bake a pie already? How long have you been awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Tiny cut herself a healthy slice of pie and poured a mug of lukewarm coffee. “So your freaky friend left two dozen peonies—which are not even in season—on the porch, and you made pie.” Tiny’s eyes flew open in bewilderment. “Oh my God, Gracey, you guys didn’t…bow chicka wow wow?” Tiny pumped her hips in a suggestive movement.

“Tiny!”

“Well what am I supposed to think?” With her pie and her coffee, Tiny slid into the chair across from her sister. “I love you, Gracey, and I love to see you happy but I really don’t know what you see in that guy.”

Gracey sighed. “He’s intelligent, he’s charming, he’s polite—”

“He’s corny as hell,” Tiny cut in, scooping a bite of pie into her mouth. “What is up with the hat? And the way he talks?”

“He’s old fashioned,” Gracey sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Tiny echoed. “So you really don’t think that guy’s even, like, a little…” She swiveled her index finger near her temple, making the universal crazy sign. “…Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs? Froot Loops?”

Gracey grimaced. “Love the cereal references. Very mature.”

Tiny cocked an eyebrow at her sister.

Gracey threw up her hands in exasperation. “Well, what do you want me to say, Tiny? He’s different! I noticed! But that doesn’t make him crazy. I mean, Tiny.” She shook her head, sighing. “I am the last person who could condemn someone for being a little different.”

Tiny shrugged in tacit agreement, chewing her pie thoughtfully. “But it’s not just how he talks and dresses. There’s just something off about him. He kinda gives me the creeps.”

“Just drop it, Tiny. He makes me feel really good about myself. When I’m with him, I feel normal. And I don’t mean by comparison,” she explained before Tiny could interrupt. “I just mean, I feel like I can be myself. It’s very liberating.”

Tiny took a sip of coffee. “You don’t feel like you can do that with me? Or Bibi? Or Darkness?”

“Darkness!” Gracey laughed, rolling her eyes. “Nothing—nothing—about Darkness makes me feel normal. Where is he anyway?”

“Don’t know. I just woke up. Answer my question.”

Gracey sighed. “I’m talking about feeling normal with a man. A real man, not a demon that looks…sort of like a man. I’m talking about a man that I could love.”

Tiny’s jaw dropped, eyes practically bugging out of her head. “Wait, you’re falling in love with Simon St. Laine? Are you kidding me? You’ve been on one date!”

“I didn’t say I was in love, I said…” Gracey shook her head, standing up and clearing her place. She took the dishes to the sink. “You’re right, it’s silly to keep a bouquet of flowers in the bathroom. Let’s take them to the cemetery so more people can enjoy them.”

Tiny licked her fork. “What people? The dead dudes? I don’t know, I kind of like having something pretty to look at while I pee.”

Gracey walked over to the table and kissed the crown of her sister’s head. “Aw. Then you can just look in the mirror.”

Tiny wrinkled her nose. “While I pee? Seriously, Gracey. You are so weird.”

The cemetery was a short walk from the Daylittle house. It had been a long time since Gracey had been there, and she was surprised to see so many fresh graves. She’d known that Rubio Bautista had been recently buried, of course, but as she walked up and down the rows she noticed three graves that had only recently been dug. Two were on the Galina family plot, and the other was a single for Buddy Heffman.

Walking over the Buddy’s grave, Gracey threw her sister a look over her shoulder. “What on earth…? When did Buddy Heffman die?”

Tiny stood, arms akimbo, surveying the cemetery. In the year she’d lived in Love & War, she’d never set foot in it. “Like a week ago, I think? I heard about it when I was visiting Darkness at the salon.”

Gracey separated out one of the peonies she was clutching and laid it on Buddy’s grave. “And you didn’t tell me about it?”

Tiny kicked at a stone lodged in the dirt, shrugged a shoulder. “I’m telling you about it now.” She ignored the look Gracey threw her. “I heard he didn’t have any family left, so there wasn’t much of a funeral. That’s kind of sad, to die alone?”

Gracey knelt down, nodded. “He lived with his sister Evangeline on the far edge of town, but she died a couple three years back. Emphysema, I think. Neither of them ever got married or had any kids.” Gracey chuckled to herself, shaking her head. “When I first moved to town Buddy used to find all sorts of reasons to show up at my house, fix things. Used to hint about how he wouldn’t mind seeing me in a swimsuit.”

Tiny made a face. “You moved here eleven years ago, so Buddy must have been…what, seventy?”

Gracey smiled at the memory. “Randy old fart,” she agreed. “It’s sad he never had kids. I think the Heffmans were one of the original settlers of Love & War. His death is…mildly historical, I guess.”

Tiny looked around, noticed there were no other Heffmans buried nearby. “Where are the others buried?”

Gracey shrugged. “I don’t know; fair question. Lots of families are buried on their own land. I’ve never been out to the Heffman place, but that could be it.”

“I heard Mr. Heffman’s eyes were missing when they found him.”

Startled, Gracey and Tiny looked around and found Lakmei standing behind them, arms crossed over her chest, her porcelain face drawn, hiding behind a curtain of white hair. She was wearing an oversized rugby shirt and jeans. Gracey had never seen her dressed so casually. For that matter, Gracey had never seen her without Lilac at her side. Seeing only one of the two identical women temporarily threw Gracey for a loop.

“Lakmei.” Gracey stood, dusted herself off. “I didn’t see you come up. You look…What was that about Buddy’s eyes?”

Lakmei remained stoic, slid her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Horace Green found Mr. Heffman dead on the floor of his garage. His eyes were missing. Not ripped out or dug out. More like burned out. I heard he had a black hole in his face where his eyes should have been.” She paused a moment, shrugging. “I can’t say for sure. The only people to see Mr. Heffman were Mr. Green and the coroner. But it’s what I heard.”

Tiny looked from Lakmei, to Gracey, and back to Lamkei. “I suspect Mr. Green in the garage with the tire wrench.” When Gracey snapped her head around and gave Tiny a horrified look, she changed tactics. “Well, I didn’t hear that,” she said. “How come I didn’t hear that? That’s the kind of thing people would be talking about, isn’t it?”

Gracey returned her attention to Lakmei, her horror still evident in the lines of her face. “Where did you hear such a nasty rumor?”

Lakmei shook her head, clear, blue eyes locking on Gracey’s. “I don’t remember,” she said. “But I heard that’s why he wasn’t buried with the other Heffmans. They’re Catholic,” Lakmei explained. “And what happened to his face was the work of the devil.”

Gracey’s mouth dropped open as she glanced anxiously from the angel to her sister. Finally she asked, “Well…was it?”

It wasn’t what she had planned to say. Until a year ago, Gracey had no reason to believe in Hell or devils or angels for that matter. But the night she and Tiny had found the Prime of Darkness lying on the side of the road, everything had changed. Gracey wasn’t sure what to believe in anymore.

But Lakmei only shook her head, unblinking eyes never breaking contact. “Probably not,” she said simply. “I thought you didn’t believe the Prime of Darkness was dangerous.”

The slight mocking in Lakmei’s voice wasn’t lost on the pie baker. “I never said I didn’t think he was dangerous,” Gracey said carefully. “But I have no reason to think Buddy Heffman would be Darkness’s enemy. Besides. I assume Darkness doesn’t have a monopoly on diabolic acts.”

Lakmei, chagrined, said nothing for a moment as she watched Gracey work through her own inner conflicts. It was no secret to either of the angels that Gracey’s feelings toward the demon were not altogether logical. Lakmei cocked her head to the side, expression evaluative. “There’s something different about you, Gracey.”

Gracey blinked. “Different how?”

Lakmei watched her a second, then shook her head slowly. “I don’t know exactly.”

Breathing an agitated sigh, Gracey nodded toward the other two graves. “Do you know what happened over there?”

Lakmei followed her gaze and sighed. “Car accident,” she said. “Carmen Olaya and her son, ah…”

“David,” Gracey whispered.

“That’s the one.”

“David was just a baby,” Gracey said. A wild shudder ran through her and she wrapped her arms across her chest in the same manner as Lakmei.

“But why is she buried with the Galinas if her last name is Olaya?” Tiny asked.

“Olaya was her married name,” Gracey said. “The Olayas and the Galinas don’t get along. Most of the Olayas have left Love & War by now; they came into money about twenty years ago, I think. Carmen’s husband Christopher was the last of them, if you don’t count the baby, of course, and he left about a year ago when he and Carmen divorced.”

Lakmei glanced down to the flowers Gracey was still holding. “Were you going to lay those anywhere in particular?”

Gracey had forgotten all about the peonies. She glanced at them, suddenly feeling foolish. She shook her head. “No, I just thought…” she shrugged, letting her words trail off.

“Do you mind if I..?” Lakmei reach for the flowers, and as though jarred out of a daydream, Gracey shook herself, handing the small bouquet to the angel.

“Not at all, please.” She handed the flowers over to Lakmei and for a brief moment, their hands brushed against each other. Lakmei drew in a sharp breath, eyes popping wide as saucers. Her lips parted, drew close in a round little O. She caught hold of Gracey’s hand, closing her delicate fingers around Gracey’s strong ones. She leaned in, pulling Gracey to her in a furtive embrace. “Is that what’s different?” She shook her head, blue eyes filling with tears. “Oh, Gracey! Whoever he is, I hope he doesn’t break your heart.”

She hadn’t been on a date in ages, but some customs are like riding a bike. Perfume dabbed behind each ear, a fresh coat of gloss across her lips, her wild mane tamed with a silk scarf, Gracey sat across a linen covered table smiling nervously at Simon St. Laine. The magician had chosen a posh Italian restaurant that Gracey had never been to, and had just finished ordering their second bottle of wine. Gracey was already beginning to feel the alcohol go to her head.

“So you got into magic by accident, then,” Gracey summarized, still smiling.

The magician swallowed that last bit of chianti in his glass, grinning. “That is a very kind way of putting it,” he said. “I suppose to an extent, we are all predisposed by some circumstance of nature to evolve along certain lines and destinies. Mine, it seems, was bent toward a perfunctory display of mild incompetence.” His eyes twinkled as he said this, and as Gracey moved to interrupt, surely to offer polite contradiction to this self deprecation, the magician held up his hand, shaking his head lightly. “No matter,” he said. “I won’t be doing this forever, I assure you.”

The evening was going better than Gracey had expected. When Simon had picked her up earlier wearing his signature top hot and violet glasses, Tiny had given her sister a weird look and whispered, “That guy is a total freakazoid”. But having sailed cleanly past the first few awkward silences and neatly evaded the choppy waves of past relationships, Gracey and Simon were now resting easy in safe waters. The expensive bottle of chianti Simon has ordered didn’t hurt.

“What about you? Did you always want to operate a bakery?”

The waiter appeared, refilled their wine glasses. Gracey took a small sip, settled back into her chair. “In a way, yes. But I guess it happened on accident,” Gracey explained. “I’ve always baked. I bake when I’m bored, I bake when I’m happy, I bake when I need to think something through. Anyway, after I moved here—which was unintentional, but that’s a whole ‘nother story—I was baking up a storm, you know, being in a new place. But I was baking more pies than I could eat, naturally, and I couldn’t just throw them out. Well,” she paused, looked thoughtful. “I threw out the ones I baked when I was bored or angry.” She wondered if she should explain, but decided not to bother. “So I started baking pies and setting them out on my porch with a little ‘Free pie’ sign. At first, people thought I was crazy. But slowly I started noticing the pies were disappearing. Turns out one of my neighbors, Beatríz Armstrong— do you know her?” When Simon shook his head, Gracey pressed on. “Anyway, she knocked on my door and told me she’d been taking the pies over to the Badlands. Bibi—that’s what everyone calls her—owns a salon, a renovated house on the corner of Church Street and East. Once a month she closes up shop and has the homeless in for showers and haircuts. I guess she feeds them, too, when she can, and apparently she’d been feeding them my pie. So she came by to introduce herself and to tell me I had no business giving away pie that good. She said I should open a proper shop.”

Gracey stopped to catch her breath, momentarily embarrassed that she’d been talking so much, but Simon didn’t seem to mind. He was watching her with a soft smile that warmed Gracey’s cockles. “So, Bibi helped me find a property and when the time was right…it just made sense to buy it and open the bakery properly.”

The magician was nodding, listening carefully. “So you bought it outright, then? Must have been a frightening investment for you.”

She thought a moment about how she wanted to answer. She was usually tight-lipped about her financial situation, but something about the magician’s formality and his sincere interest in her put her at ease. “My family is wealthy,” she explained. “I live off the interest of a trust fund. I’m lucky; I had the option of doing something just because I loved it without having to worry about making a living at it.”

The magician whistled. “You are lucky,” he agreed. “It could easily have gone the other way for you. A life of leisure is not without its own pitfalls. I understand it can be difficult to find fulfillment when everything has been handed to you.”

Gracey thought briefly of Tiny and the messes she had frequently found herself in before coming to Love & War to live with Gracey. It hadn’t ever occurred to Gracey before that the family’s wealth could have had a hand in Tiny’s wildness. She pushed this thought aside. “I originally studied sociology in college,” Gracey said, changing the subject. “But things happen. I found myself here instead and for the most part, I couldn’t be happier. The universe is unpredictable.”

Simon laughed and was about to respond when something just beyond Gracey caught his attention. He stiffened, his demeanor changing abruptly. He sat straighter in his chair, folded his hands in front of him on the table. Gracey turned slightly to see a slight woman approaching their table wearing a fur stole, glinting diamond earrings, and a too-wide smile. It was Simon’s cousin, Kit St. Laine.

“Well, fancy meeting you here!” she exclaimed, leaning down to kiss her cousin on both cheeks. She left a trail of thick, French perfume in her wake. “I didn’t realize you had a taste for Italian fine dining,” she said, winking.

“It’s a pleasure to see you, Kit.” The magician barely met his cousin’s eyes. “I hadn’t realized you were in town.”

Kit giggled prettily. “I hadn’t intended to be! But you know how things go—my line of work can be so unpredictable!”

Simon nodded, cleared his throat. “You remember Gracey Daylittle?” He nodded toward his date.

Kit flicked her eyes to Gracey briefly, and Gracey thought she saw the barest flicker of irritation pass over her face. But then the woman took an exaggerated step backward, and motioned quickly between the two of them. “Hold on just a minute!”she exclaimed, her mouth drawing in to make a perfect o. “You’re not…are you two on a date?”

Simon continued to stare steadfastly down into his plate. Gracey noted a flush of red creeping up the magician’s neck, but something about his expression and the slight tremble in his upper body led Gracey believe the color was from anger, not embarrassment. “I had requested the pleasure of Miss Daylittle’s company for a leisurely evening,” he replied, his voice level.

Kit threw her head back and laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made other people turn their heads and look, which they did, which made Gracey’s cheeks flush red. The small woman shook her head in disbelief, her shining curls bobbing around her face like a dark halo. “Well that is just magnificent,” she patronized. “I mean it, Simon, you are just full of surprises.”

There was a hard edge to her voice, something decidedly unfriendly that set Gracey on edge. Still, she was a southern girl born and bred, and some customs die hard. “Kit, we’ve already finished dinner, but we’d be delighted if you wanted to join us.” Gracey smiled sweetly, hoping she sounded more sincere than she felt.

The woman lifted the wine bottle from the table, turning the label toward her to read it. “Wow, a very nice vintage,” she purred. “I would never have thought you’d know a good wine from a hole in the ground.” She gave Simon another dripping grin, which the magician didn’t notice as he was still staring into his plate. Kit turned her attention to Gracey, whose upturned face was starting to betray her annoyance. “I thank you for the invitation but I sense this was supposed to be a very intimate evening,” she said, winking. Gracey felt her stomach turn an unpleasant flip. “Simon, you will be home at a decent hour, won’t you? I have something we need to…discuss.”

For the first time, Simon looked up to meet his cousin’s eyes, his face stoic. “Would you prefer that I come home now?”

The contrite response caught Gracey off guard, but she was careful to keep the surprise out of her face. Go home with this woman? In the middle of their date? She felt another flush of embarrassment color her cheeks. Was he trying to get out of the rest of the evening? She’d thought things were going so well. But when she sneaked a quick glance at her date she could sense that going home with this woman wasn’t what the magician wanted at all. His expression was impassive, but Gracey could feel displeasure coming off him in waves, and she couldn’t help but wonder at the nature of the undercurrent she felt flowing between the cousins. Kit merely shook her head, the mischievous gleam in her eye all the more apparent. “Not necessary. It can wait,” she said simply. Gathering herself together, the woman gave Gracey a final, tight smile and said, “Very good to see you again, Gracey. Simon.” She bent low and kissed him again, and in an instant, she was gone.

The magician took a moment to compose himself, and then downed the last of his wine. He filled a second glass and it swallowed it as well. When he was finished, he sagged in his chair, his previous glow diminished, if not gone altogether. He smiled apologetically at Gracey, his eyes full of a regret Gracey could scarcely read. “I apologize for the interruption,” he said.

Gracey shrugged, offering an understanding smile. “We can choose our friends,” she said, nonchalant. “We can’t choose our family.”

The corner of the magician’s mouth trembled in what Gracey thought was an attempt at a smile. He gave an absent nod. “There is a deep truth in that statement,” he said. “For all that we are blood relations, Kit and I have always been a difficult pairing. I’m afraid I find her rather abrasive. Still,we have precious few allies in this world. It would be a pity to alienate them.”

His statement hit a little too close to home, and Gracey shifted uncomfortably in her seat as her thoughts shifted to her mother’s letter. She tried to think of a way to save the evening, but her own energy was waning, and she could tell Simon was faring no better. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and said, “Maybe we should call it a night?”

The magician motioned for the bill and offered Gracey a grateful, if weary, smile.

He walked Gracey to her front door. Tiny had left the porch light on for them. For a moment, Gracey wished she’d had a reason to lock her doors, and therefore a reason to search her purse for her keys, a reason to keep Simon standing there, waiting for her. But she had no such convenient excuse to prolong the moment before his departure. She met his eyes and smiled into them, wracking her mind for something useful to say, something that could relay, without chance for serious repercussion, what she was feeling. She could think of nothing, however, and sensing that if she didn’t find the courage he certainly wouldn’t, Gracey leaned in, face upturned, and kissed the magician full on the lips.

Pie Crust

• 1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter
• 1 cup unbleached all purpose flour
• 1/2 cup graham flour
• 1/2 cup toasted pecans, finely chopped
• 2 Tbs sugar

Every perfect pie begins with a perfect crust. And there’s no such thing as a single perfect crust, no matter what anyone might tell you. Each crust has to complement the pie it supports, and only the eater can really know for sure what the perfect combination is.

Well, the eater and me, of course. Because I have a “thing” for pie. A sixth sense. It’s just a little quirk I have.

My sister says I’ve had it all my life. Maybe she’s right. She remembers a time when I made her cry for a week because I baked her a birthday pie right after I found out my boyfriend was cheating on me. I was upset when I made the pie, so my sister became upset when she ate it. According to her, she cried inexplicably for a week. I actually don’t remember that. The her crying part, I mean. I remember the boyfriend. His name was Bryan. With a “y”. I should have known he would be trouble.

Pie Filling

• 1 cup powdered sugar
• 8 oz. cream cheese at room temperature
• 1 cup Cool Whip

Honestly, I think it’s cheating to use Cool Whip in a homemade pie recipe, but sometimes you have to cheat. Like the time in college I was too brokenhearted after a devastating car accident to finish a term paper and had to ask a friend to finish it for me. My professor found out, but she took pity on me and didn’t report me to the dean. I’m sure I would have been expelled. Instead she failed me in the course.

But it worked out all right. You don’t need a degree in sociology to become a pie baker.

Though having a knack for people helps.

Directions:

1. Preheat the oven to 375.
2. Combine the ingredients for the crust.
3. Spread the crust mixture into a 9 inch pie pan. (I prefer metal. You can use glass. If you’re not a purist.
4. Bake for 20–25 minutes. (This is a guesstimate. The crust should hold its form and not release crumbs when touched. But honestly, this isn’t how I know my crust is ready. I know the crust is ready when I can smell it from thirty paces and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but I realize this isn’t a useful measurement for most bakers.)
5. Remove from oven and let cool completely. On the porch if you’ve got one.

My mother didn’t bake. Doesn’t bake. She drinks a lot, which I guess has always been her hallmark. She didn’t bother too much with my sister and me, preferring to leave the child rearing to Matola, our housekeeper-cum-nanny. But I don’t resent my mother for that. Her inattentiveness and self-absorption is just who she is. She left Tiny and me to far more loving hands than hers, and Matola’s kindness taught me to love myself, to care for myself, and to be the woman I grew up to be. Could my mother have offered me the same stability and self-assurance? I doubt it. Those weren’t her strong suits.

No, I don’t resent my mother for the things she couldn’t help. I resent her for the things she could have helped but didn’t. I resent her for never once trying to be a better mother. I resent her for making alcoholism look glamorous. I resent her for turning Tiny out of the house when all she did was get pregnant too young and out of wedlock.

Which was stupid of her, yes. Every modern woman knows about birth control. And it’s not like she couldn’t afford it.

But what do I know? I haven’t had a man, or a reason to use birth control, in years. And it’s not because of my thighs.

Directions for the filling:

1. Combine all the filling ingredients in a mixer.
2. Pour the cream cheese mixture into the crust.
3. Refrigerate for at least an hour or until the cream cheese is firm.

“Firm thighs,” my mother said in her evaluative tone as I descended the steps in my prom dress. It was black and A-line with fluttery sleeves and a flattering V-neckline. I had preened and primped in the mirror for 30 minutes before trusting myself to come downstairs. I was brimming with confidence and joy until my mother stopped me dead in my tracks with an analytic stare that blatantly read, “Does not measure up.”

“That’s all your dress is missing, darling. Firm thighs.” My mother sighed, brushing her platinum blonde hair from her eyes. “Why you couldn’t spend a few hours at the gym I just don’t know. Boys don’t like fat girls. That’s probably why you’re going stag.”

The idea that I was fat at 16 should have been ridiculous to my ears. I was a size 10, and at 5’6 that was perfectly normal and healthy. I was a pretty girl, and in that dress I looked like a million dollars. Besides, the dress came just to my knees. You couldn’t even see my thighs. I was going stag because I’d caught my asshole of a boyfriend making out with Meaghan Florence who wore a size 6 and had firm everything.

My mother would approve.

I should have told my mother to go jump in a lake. But teenaged girls are not models of self confidence, and my mother’s words rang like a bell inside my head, sending me into a downspiral of self doubt and insecurity.

The thing is, I don’t think she said it to be cruel. She really, truly, thought it was the appropriate thing to say.

Lime Curd

• 3/4 cup Key lime juice (I haven’t met anyone who can tell the difference btween limes and key limes, but for posterity’s sake, use key limes.)

• 1 tsp. lime zest

• 1/2 cup superfine sugar

• 3 eggs

• 3/4 stick unsalted butter

Directions for the lime curd:

1. Cream the butter and the sugar until fluffy
2. Add the eggs one at a time, scraping down the bowl as you go. Ensure each egg is fully absorbed before adding the next.
3. Add the lime juice
4. In a double boiler, gently heat the lime curd mixture. Whisk constantly until the curd thickens.
5. When the curd is nice and thick, pour into a ceramic or glass bowl, cover, and refrigerate.

I was in college when my father died. It isn’t much of a story. He died unexpectedly of heart failure. I was sad, but not overly so as a daughter should be, because my father and I were not close. I would love to tell you that we had a classic Daddy’s Little Girl relationship, but the truth is he wasn’t around very much. Though when he was around, he clearly preferred Tiny to me. That was okay, as most everyone preferred Tiny to me. It was hard not to. Conventionally beautiful, smart, and brimming over with personality, Tiny could wrap anyone around her little finger, and did, most of the time. Give her and inch and she’d take a mile. But you couldn’t hold it against her. It was just her way.

Baking key lime pie always makes me remember the more sour parts of my life.

I’m working on it.

Whipped Topping

• 2 cups heavy whipping cream
• 1 Tbs powdered sugar
• 1 tsp Madagascar vanilla

Directions for topping:

1. Beat the whipping cream with the sugar on high speed until it holds stiff peaks.

Putting it all together:

1. Once the cream cheese is firm (unlike my 16 year old thighs) pour the lime curd over top of the cream cheese layer.
2. Spread the whipped topping over the lime curd.
3. Garnish the whipped cream with the lime zest.
4. Refrigerate at least 2 hours but preferably over night before serving.
5. Be prepared for comments about your delicious pie’s unconventional coloring.

“This key lime pie isn’t green,” Mama said, her eyebrows drawn together like curtains on a too warm day. “Why on earth is this key lime pie yellow?”

It was Thanksgiving, the last Thanksgiving Daddy was with us. “Real key lime pie isn’t green, Mama,” I said, my voice even. I was used to her criticisms by then. “If a key lime pie is green, it means they added food coloring. Real key lime pie is the color of butter and egg yolks,” I said, sliding a hefty slice onto Daddy’s plate. I was proud of myself for knowing these things, and excited to be able to share my knowledge with my family.

But Mama wasn’t impressed. “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time in college if all you seem to be learning is how to bake unconventional pies,” she said, pushing her slice away from her without even taking a bite. “I grew up eating key lime pie and it’s always been green and quite good, too, I might add.”

If that was a test, I’d failed. Tiny and I had exchanged looks, finished off our slices, and gone in for seconds.

I should have taken the whole pie and shoved it in Mama’s face. I wonder what Daddy would have done. Would he have laughed? Would the laughter have relieved the pressure that was building up in his heart? Could shoving my mother’s austere face into a whipped cream covered pastry perfection have saved my father’s life?

Pie can do amazing things. It can make people laugh, or sing, or purr. But I don’t know if pie can save a life.

But I’d be willing to try.

Love & War hadn’t seen a violent crime in over a decade, so news of Rubio Bautista’s murder spread like wildfire. The news even caused a stir in the Badlands, where town news that didn’t involve free food or free showers and haircuts at the You Look Nice Salon was seldom worth discussing.

No one knew how to respond to the murder. Some families left the carefully hung Christmas lights that trimmed their homes dark out of respect for Rubio and his widow. Others put on brave faces and tried to carry on as normally they could, but parents were loathe to let their children too far out of sight, and lovers held each other closer and tighter than was usually their wont. The murder came as a hard blow to the town, striking at its very heart. The steel gray skies of winter did nothing to ease the deep sorrow.

Tiny watched her sister pull a pie out of the oven as she turned the event of Rubio’s murder over in her mind. Everyone else was talking about it, but Gracey had hardly mentioned it. Although Tiny hadn’t known Ines or Rubio Bautista well, Gracey knew everyone, and the tragedy must surely have affected her. That her sister had said little of Rubio’s death worried Tiny.

Climbing up on the sideboard, Tiny crossed her ankles and pushed a wild lock of red hair behind her ear. “Gracey,” she said, “Rubio’s funeral is tonight. You haven’t said anything about it, and I wondered if we were going.”

Gracey placed the pie on the cooling rack, shook her hair off her forehead. “The funeral’s at St. Benedict’s in Placerita,” she said.

Tiny waited. When Gracey said nothing else, she said, “Okay…?”

Gracey threw her sister a sideways glance as she pulled a bag of pie dough from the refrigerator. “You know I won’t go into a Catholic church.” She emptied the dough onto the counter.

Tiny rolled her eyes at Gracey’s back. “How long are you gonna carry that grudge?” She said the words with an inflection intended to raise Gracey’s ire. She braced herself for it.

But Gracey wouldn’t be roped into an argument. “Long as it takes,” she answered simply. She began beating the pie dough with a rolling pin. “No reason I can see you shouldn’t go, if that’s what you want.”

But Tiny only shrugged. “I’d feel weird going by myself. But even if we don’t go to the funeral, we’ll go the wake, right?”

“Planned on it,” Gracey replied. “Why, Tiny? You want something just say it.”

Tiny frowned at her sister. “Why are you in such a bad mood?”

Gracey turned, gave her sister a cold stare. “Somebody brought murder to my town,” she said. “And I’m a little bent outta shape about it.”

Tiny cut her eyes at her sister. “I’m not an idiot, Gracey.”

Gracey gave the dough an extra slap with the pin, and let out a long sigh, shaking her head. “I got a letter from Mama,” she said.

Tiny bit her lip, stopped kicking her feet. Gracey and Annette hadn’t spoken in over a year, ever since Tiny had left home to live with Gracey. There had been bad blood between them for longer than that, thought Tiny had never known why. It was something no one saw fit to speak to her about.

But that Annette had broken the silence with a letter could only mean something bad.

“What did she want?” Tiny asked.

Gracey rolled the dough out with more force than was needed. Her mouth was an angry slash across her face. “To let me know she wrote me out of her will.”

Tiny blinked in surprise. “She did what?”

Gracey laughed, mirthless, hard. “You heard me right,” she said. “She wrote me letter—couldn’t even face me over the phone, I guess—to tell me she no longer considers me family and that she sees no reason I should inherit any of the family’s wealth.” She threw the rolling pin, turned to face her sister. “It’s funny—Daddy was the Daylittle, not her. I’m an actual Daylittle by birth. What right does she even have to write me out of the family?”

Tiny didn’t know what to say. She could see the hurt in her sister’s face, hurt that was even greater than the anger at her mother’s self-centered audacity. “Are you going to be all right? Financially?”

Gracey nodded, waved away her sister’s concern. “It’s not the money,” she said. “Daddy left me plenty when he died. It’s just…it’s just so goddamned petty. And self-righteous. I don’t even know what else.”

“I’m sorry,” Tiny said, knowing it wasn’t enough. “But I have to mention…you probably shouldn’t be baking right now.”

Gracey turned to look down at the pie crust she’d been rolling out. She wondered how much anger and resentment she’d kneaded into the dough. Frantically, she began pulling the dough off the counter, throwing the pieces into the trash as they came up. “Jesus, you’re right,” she said. “The way I’m feeling I could poison the whole goddamned town.”

Tiny sighed. “Damn, this is really bad timing, too.”

Gracey looked over her shoulder, raised an eyebrow. “Why, were you going to ask for a loan?”

Tiny scoffed. “No. I…I was hoping we could bake a pie for Mrs. Bautista. An anti-grief pie.”

Gracey hrmmed, scraped the rest of the pie dough into the trash. She placed her palms against the edge of the counter, leaned her weight onto her arms. “Even if I were up for it, and I’m clearly not, people have to grieve, Tiny. It’s part of the healing process. Believe me, I know. I know a little something about loss.” She hesitated a moment, then continued. “When I lost Gabe in the accident, I didn’t think I’d ever get over it. Some days I didn’t even want to wake up or get out of bed. It just felt like the world wasn’t even worth being present for anymore. After he died, I just gave up.”

It was strange hearing Gracey talk about the accident. Tiny had been just a girl when Gracey and her fiance had been in the car accident that killed him and left Gracey in the hospital for weeks. She had never met Gabe, only heard his name mentioned in passing. The one thing she did know about him was that for whatever reason, for reasons Gracey had never spoken to Tiny about, their engagement had disintegrated what was left of Gracey’s relationship with their mother. Annette had never even visited Gracey in the hospital when she was hanging onto life by a thread.

She could see the grief in Gracey’s face. Tiny wondered which part of the ordeal she was remembering.

“When you lose someone you love, happiness seems impossible,” Gracey was saying. “There’s no magic in the world can take that pain away.”

Then, she smiled. “On the other hand, they’re showing The Sound of Music at the dollar theater.”

Tiny made a face. “That movie sucks.”

“It’s my favorite.”

Tiny sighed, hopped down off the counter. “If it’s for a good cause. I’ll go with you. Afterwards, maybe put on some Happy Gracey music and see about that pie?”

Gracey shrugged. “I’m not saying I can make her want to dance the Macarena, but maybe we can at least help her want to get out of bed. Help her find a reason to keep going. See that life isn’t…such a waste.”

They locked up early. For a good cause.

Five hours, a bottle of Layer Cake pinot grigio and a food fight later, Gracey, wrapped in the post-alpine glow that seemed to have pushed all angst about their mother aside, pulled from the oven a beautifully browned, bubbling cherry pie. Tiny had insisted on a playlist— “Just to be sure”—that would keep Gracey’s spirits high while they baked. Tiny put the playlist together while Gracey assmbled the ingredients, adding only songs that made Gracey feel glad to be alive. The playlist had included Walking On Sunshine, Favorite Things, Perfect Day, Life Is Wonderful, and Wonderful World. Though Tiny had found some of the songs a bit on the corny side, she could practically feel Gracey’s skin humming with a golden joie d’vivre, and she knew, as she watched her sister lay the latticework for the cherry pie, that the magic was flowing.

The townsfolk began pouring in to the Bautista home around 7pm that evening. Many of the old families who, like the Bautistas, had lived in Love & War since the town was founded, had come early to help Ines receive her guests. They brought her casseroles and cornbreads, soups and salsas. They offered condolences, many of them with faces nearly as full of sadness as her own. Amid the gathering of friends and family, Ines Bautista sat like a crying Madonna, still and alone amid dozens of warm, vibrating bodies.

As Gracey came through the door with her pie, she saw Inés, recognized the grief she wore like a mask. It stabbed at her heart, and for a moment Gracey wondered if she’d made a mistake in coming. But that was what funerals were for, she remembered. For sharing in grief, not running from it.

With Tiny close behind, Gracey carried the pie to the kitchen. She sat it on the counter and glanced around. She pointed toward a drawer and said, “Tiny, bring me a fork, please.”

As Tiny hunted for the silverware, Gracey opened the cupboard and retrieved a small sandwich plate. Using the pie knife she’d brought, Gracey cut a generous slice, slid it carefully onto the plate. Tiny presented the fork, and Gracey placed it on the plate alongside the pie. As she headed for the living room, Tiny asked, “Should I put the pie away? So no one else will eat it?”

Gracey smiled, shook her head. “One slice should do the trick.”

Avoiding the other guests was no small feat in a house this size, but Gracey managed to make her way to Inés without jostling her plate too much. She sat down next to the widow, who barely flicked her eyes to register Gracey’s presence. Gracey put a hand softly on her elbow. “Inés, I’ve brought you something. Something to…something to help.”

She didn’t wait for Inés’s permission. Gracey pierced the pie with the fork, breaking off a small bite. She lifted the fork to Inés’s lips. “I want you to taste this,” she said.

The widow caught Gracey’s gaze then and in a moment of understanding, opened her mouth. Gracey fed her the small bite, watched as the woman swallowed it. After a moment, Inés blinked, then nodded. Gracey fed her another bite, and then another. Before long, Gracey fed Inés the entire slice. When she was done, Inés took the plate from Gracey and pressed her thumb against the final crumbs and licked them off. She set the plate aside and, with a fresh wave of tearful emotion, gathered Gracey into her arms and hugged her tightly. “God bless you,” she whispered.

When they pulled apart, Gracey leaned in and kissed the widow on a wet cheek. “It gets better,” she promised. The widow gave a brief nod of thanks, and Gracey took her leave.

The cold air outside was a sharp contrast to the crowded warmth inside the house. As she stepped into the evening, away from the stifling emotion indoors, Gracey pulled her coat tight against her chest and looked up into the night sky. Even after a decade of living here, the desert sky still filled Gracey with a  deep sense of calm and wonder. She breathed the cold air in deep, let it burn all the way down her lungs, and when she exhaled, she watched her breath condense and dance in the cold air.

A shadow warned her of another presence, and Gracey turned to see Simon St. Laine approaching her from the house. He was dressed more casually than the last time she’d seen him; the top hat was missing, and he’d tied his long, black hair away from his face. The violet spectacles were gone. His skin was white against his mourning clothes—not just pale, but sickly, with purpling circles under his eyes. He offered Gracey a small, stiff smile by way of salutation. “It’s Gracey, if memory serves?”

She nodded. “That’s right.”

The magician’s smile settled in, became a little less awkward. “I hope you don’t mind my following you out here,” he said.

Gracey shook her head. “Escaping the grief, too?”

The corners of the magician’s mouth quirked. “Something like that. It might seem strange, my being a performer, but I don’t much like crowds.”

Gracey smiled, nodding. “I know what you mean. I’m a people person myself, but I can understand needing your space.” She nodded toward the sky. “Especially on a night like tonight. Seems a pity to be holed up indoors.”

Simon followed Gracey’s gaze upward. After a moment, he realized she was looking at him, expectant. She knew he hadn’t come out for idle chatter. He held out a hand, made a small, sweeping gesture, palm up. An invitation. “Would you mind walking with me a moment?”

Gracey shrugged and followed the magician’s lead as they walked slowly down Yucatan Road. He seemed, if not more comfortable, at least less uncomfortable than the first time she’d met him; some of his formal strangeness had been replaced with an air of weariness. The night was quiet; Gracey could hear coyotes howling in the distance. She was loathe to be the one to break the silence, but stealing a glance at the magician she could tell something was on his mind. “Are you doing all right, Simon? You look…unwell. Hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

Hands clasped behind his back, the magician walked with his head down, but Gracey could see the small downward turn of his mouth. “I don’t mind. I’m getting on,” he said. “As well as can be expected anyway. The past several days have been…very hard on me.”

Gracey raised an eyebrow. “You knew Rubio well?”

The magician shook his head. His hair gleamed black in the moonlight. “Not well, no. But death…it’s a funny thing. When it touches one of us, it touches all of us, don’t you agree?”

Gracey breathed in deep thorugh her mouth, stifled an urge to sneer. She couldn’t agree, not after having seen first hand how some people could utterly disregard another’s grief. In her mind she was ten years younger in her hospital bed, having heard for the first time that Gabe hadn’t survived the crash. She remembered asking for her mother, and being told Annette refused to see her. She’d begged, pleaded, cried, “I just lost my fiance!” but her mother still refused not only to visit but to speak with Gracey at all.

Her mother’s refusing her had cut her to the quick. They’d barely spoken in the intervening years; in fact, had Tiny not been living at home at the time, Gracey would have cut off all familial ties completely. But for better or for worse, Tiny had kept her tethered.

Still, the magician didn’t need to hear any of this. She shook off the reverie, breathed the night in deep. “I do, yes,” she said. “It’s a somber time for everyone.”

They said nothing else for a while, letting the silence fill the space between them. They listened to crunch of the dirt under their feet, the occasional screech of a bat, the sound of wind whistling through bare tree limbs. Finally, Simon broached the real reason he’d asked Gracey for a walk. “I saw you with Inés,” he said. “She’d been nearly catatonic all evening. Even at the funeral she hardly moved. Several people tried to get her to eat; it was like she didn’t even see them. Then you came in, fed her a piece of pie, and she…hugged you.” He looked at Gracey, a puzzled expression on his face. “How did you get her to do that? To…” He cast about for the right expression. “To…wake up like that.”

They’d stopped walking without realizing it. Simon was looking down into Gracey’s eyes. His were narrow and piercing, questioning. That stare filled her up with a thousand responses, answers to questions he hadn’t even asked, but she was unsure where to begin. Or if she wanted to begin. Something about that look, those eyes, made her want to talk for hours, and if she started she didn’t know if she could stop. Looking up into those eyes, she felt she could pour herself into him, could tell him the story of her life, and he’d listen to all of it, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

But the words caught in her throat, and her desire to tell him everything—about her magic, her mother, how she ended up in Love & War—turned sour in her stomach. She didn’t know this man at all. And the fact alone that she wanted to tell him everything made her uneasy.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she said after a long pause. She was biting her lower lip, arms wrapped around her torso to ward off the cold. “You’re new around these parts—new by small town standards, anyway—so I guess you haven’t heard tell about me.” She smiled then, awkward, but honest. “I just…I have a way with pie,” she said. The words sounded ridiculous as she said them, and as soon as she spoke them she wanted to take them back and find a more elegant way of putting it, a way that wouldn’t make her sound like some no-account backwoods diner operator.

But that was just the problem. There wasn’t a more elegant a way to put it, because what she did wasn’t elegant. She wasn’t elegant. She was the square peg in the round Daylittle family hole, a milkweed of a woman who wore her hair wild all over her head and baked pies in the desert for a living. And now, standing with a strange magician under a star studded sky on a cold winter night, she was faced with the reality of what she’d been running from for quite a long time.

She wasn’t sure she knew where she belonged.

All of this ran through her head in a fraction of the second, and if the magician thought her words strange, he didn’t show it. He was still listening, his expression thoughtful.  “I wonder, Gracey, if I could call on you some time,” he said after a moment.

It took her a second to realize what he was asking. “Oh! I…are you…are you asking me on a date?”

The magician stepped back, lowered his eyes. “My apologies. If that was presumptuous of me, I—”

“No, it’s not that,” Gracey interrupted. “It’s just that…I haven’t…dated…anyone in a long time.” She offered a weak smile. “I don’t even think I remember how it’s done anymore,” she admitted.

The magician nodded. “I understand. It was a silly thing; I’m sorry.”

But Gracey shook her head, biting her lip. “Ask me again.”

“I’m sorry?”

Gracey felt her face blush deep red, her cheeks hot against the cool night air. “Please, just start over. Ask me again.”

A small look of understanding crept over the magician’s face, and a shy smile took bloom on his lips. “Gracey,” he began, his smile widening, “I was wondering if I could have the honor of calling on you some time.”

Gracey nodded, swallowing around the lump in her throat. “I’d be happy to have dinner with you,” she said. “Thank you for asking.”

They stood in silence, looking up at the sky. A wind blew and Gracey shivered. “We probably ought to get back,” Simon said.

Wordless, Gracey nodded, followed the magician back the way they’d come. It might have been the cold, it might have been her imagination, or it might have been a thousand other things, but Gracey thought she saw the smallest bit of color return to the magician’s face as they stepped back across the Bautista threshold. It was improper, and Gracey felt ashamed for it, but she couldn’t help, as the house’s warmth thawed her from her bones outward, smiling.

Trinity Church, situated at the corner of Church and Martinez in the heart of Love & War, gained its notoriety for having burned down not once, but twice: once over a hundred years ago, and twice less than a year before. Both times it had gone up in flames before its construction was completed. Neither fire had been satisfactorily explained, but for the most part people were willing to accept both misfortunes as freak acts of God, especially since, in this case, the upshot of the accident was a block party sublimated to a holy festival by way of brightly colored party decorations, promise of prayer, and copious amounts of free food.

The townsfolk felt this was as good a way to consecrate the church grounds for its imminent rebuilding as any.

On this particular afternoon, the church had been transformed from the charred ruins of an old building with a statue out front to a small carnival. Street vendors offered peanuts, pretzels, popcorn, and candied apples. Brightly colored helium balloons were tied to anything that stood still. Folding chairs littered the lawn, and long banquet tables were set with fruit punch, potato salad, cold cuts, fried chicken, several plates of pot-luck dishes, and an assortment of desserts.

The Prime of Darkness shuffled behind Gracey, trying his best not to make eye contact with anyone. Obtrusive as he was in his shining pauldrons and billowing silk cape, the townsfolk did a commendable job of giving him a wide berth and offering pleasant smiles when eye contact was inevitable. If they tittered or gossiped when his back was turned, they did so with dignified, hushed voices behind cupped palms and only in the spirit of better understanding the blue-skinned newcomer whose presence had so disrupted their town.

It seemed everyone had turned out for the dedication ceremony. Mothers with small children chased their wards around the courtyard while men who had grown up together exchanged stories of family life, the economy, how tough things were at work. Teenagers stood sulkily apart, disdain and boredom oozing from their pores. The conversations he overheard as he passed between groups were oddly similar; the Prime of Darkness wondered if the humans were aware how common and trite their lives truly were.

He followed Gracey through the crowd as she mingled with the folks who patronized her bakery. She was a natural extrovert, the smile that played over her mouth wide and genuine. She blushed prettily at compliments about her dress or her hair; she offered her own praises and flatteries with the practiced art of a true southern belle. The Palmers received commendations on their home’s new paint job; the Garcias were lauded for their son’s winning the spelling bee. She mingled with the townsfolk easily, doling out pleasantries with a natural grace. The Prime of Darkness couldn’t help but be impressed at the spectacle Gracey was in her natural element.

“You’re having a good time?” The demon made it a question as his eyes scanned the crowd. He was looking for someone in particular. “You seem like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Gracey blushed. “I hardly ever get a chance to do anything like this,” she explained. “Always cooped up in the bakery or at the house, and Lord knows Tiny doesn’t like to socialize with us lowly commoners.” She grinned, shrugging. “It feels good to put on makeup, wear a pretty dress, have people admire you. It’s nice to have face time with the people you live with, ” she said. “You should know your neighbors.”

But the Prime of Darkness was hardly paying attention, as at that moment he found what he was been searching for. On the far end of the courtyard, furthest from the road, Lilac and Lakmei were moving in their direction, winding their lithe figures through the crowd as they welcomed their guests, pretty, warm smiles and genteel laughter at the ready. They wore identical kelly green blouses and identical gray slacks. They flitted from couple to couple, group to group, their buoyant smiles lighting their faces until their eyes found Darkness and their smiles flickered; dark surprise dimmed their angelic brightness.

The pair found their way to Gracey and Darkness, their smiles having returned full force. Lilac took Gracey’s hand, squeezed it. “Gracey Daylittle,” she cooed. “I’m so glad to see you could make it.” She leaned in, gave Gracey a light kiss on the cheek. She flicked her eyes to the Prime of Darkness, and her smile tightened. “And you brought someone with you,” she said, her voice strained. “Now that, I didn’t expect.” She faced the Prime of Darkness directly, her smile having taken on a menacing edge. “I’m surprised you had the audacity to show your face here after what you did,” she said.

The Prime of Darkness stiffened as he looked from Lilac to Lakmei, then back again. “I haven’t come for a reprise if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said. “I was obeying orders. The mission failed, or I wouldn’t still be here. I have no personal interest in you or this church,” he said calmly.

Lakmei reached for the demon, and took his hand in both of hers, the way Lilac had done with Gracey. The gesture surprised the entire party. “It’s so good to hear you say that, Prime of Darkness,” she said, her voice soft as silk and sweet as honey. She tilted her head to the side as her thumbs caressed the back of Darkness’s hand. “We don’t have to be enemies,” she said. “I know that millennia of grievances stand between your kind and ours, but there doesn’t need to be any animosity here, between you and us. We just want to bring our message of love and salvation to Love & War. It would be good of you not to stand in our way. We don’t want trouble.”

Angelic tenderness toward the demon was a display Gracey had never witnessed, and it surprised her. She’d never seen Lilac or Lakmei direct anything but hostility in Darkness’s direction. She stole a glance at Lilac and saw on her smooth, white face an expression that mirrored her own confusion. Whatever Lakmei was trying to convey to Darkness, Lilac neither shared in it nor fully understood it. This realization was more worrisome to Gracey than the fact that she was standing between two natural enemies—a sworn solider of darkness and two messengers of light. It wasn’t exactly an enviable position to be in.

The Prime of Darkness held Lakmei’s stare and struggled to find the right words to reply, but they weren’t forthcoming. Eventually he removed his hand from hers and turned to Gracey. “I think I’ll have some fried chicken,” he said. She watched him make his way to the food tables where he soon disappeared behind a wall of townsfolk and balloons.

“Anyway,” Lilac said, returning her attention to Gracey, “it’s good to see you. Is your sister not with you today?”

Gracey shook her head. “She couldn’t make it. Though I was instructed to bring back a slice of Hannah Davey’s chocolate cake if there was any left.” She put extra effort into her smile. She hoped it made her seem nonthreatening. She’d already earned the angels’ mistrust for harboring the demon.

“Oh, well. Tell her we missed her.” Lilac took a little breath and looked around, slipping back into hostess mode. “I expect we’ll be getting started soon. We’ll talk later.” Her saccharine-sweet smile was pasted back into place, and the two angels gave Gracey little finger waves as they drifted back into the crowd.

Aware as she was of how uncomfortable Darkness felt amongst people he didn’t know—which was nearly everyone—Gracey set off to find the demon. But though she found the fried chicken and several Jell-O molds, she didn’t happen to find the Prime of Darkness. As she craned her neck to look over the heads of the crowd, she maneuvered through the throng without watching where she was going and collided with another body. A gasp, a swear, a slice of German chocolate cake tumbling to the ground, and Gracey brought her hands to her mouth as she apologized for her clumsiness. “I’m so sorry,” she breathed, kneeling to help clean up the mess. “I didn’t see you there.”

The woman on the receiving end of Gracey’s apologies chuckled graciously, waving the apology away. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m used to it.” She was referring, ostensibly, to her height, which was slight. Even crouched, Gracey could tell she was not much more than five feet tall. She offered Gracey a forgiving smile, and Gracey felt the band of embarrassment that had caught her in its grasp loosen as they stood.

It took Gracey half a moment to realize she’d seen this woman before, but she couldn’t recall where. They didn’t get many newcomers to Love & War, and fresh faces tended to stand out; why she was drawing a blank on where she’d seen this woman before, Gracey didn’t know. It wasn’t until she glanced over the woman’s shoulder and saw her escort, a thin, nervous gentleman in a top hat and violet colored spectacles that she was able to place her. Gracey pointed a finger in recognition. “Are you…you’re the lovely woman I saw onstage at the Simon St. Laine show recently, aren’t you? You’re his assistant, right?” Gracey motioned to the magician. “I thought I recognized you.”

Simon St. Laine moved to the woman’s side in one quick, graceful movement as the small woman laughed—it was a high, tinkling laugh, the sound of silver bells on a clear morning. She shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “I don’t know a thing about magic.” She looked up at the magician, eyes bright. “But Simon does put on a wonderful show. Wasn’t it just marvelous?”

Gracey looked to the magician, saw a nervous smile try to appear, resulting only in an upward twitch of the corner of his mouth. She gave a little nod and extended her hand. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure,” Gracey said. “I’m Gracey Daylittle. I own the pie shop just down the road, Want Some Pie? Do you know the one?”

The magician nodded his head, a stiff, up once, down once movement. He accepted Gracey’s proffered hand awkwardly, like the action pained him. He pumped her hand once and released it. “I know the one,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t partake of pastry, so I’ve never had the opportunity to patronize your establishment,” he explained. His words were more clipped and formal than they had been the several times she’d seen him onstage. Gracey wondered if perhaps he were the shy sort. “I’m Simon St. Laine,” he said. “I’m quite pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Daylittle.”

Gracey waved away the formality, smiling. “Gracey, please,” she said. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you. I’ve seen many of your performances over the years.” She paused, noticed the way a flush crept up his neck. She wondered if he were aware of what people said about his work. “The Placerita show was brilliant,” Gracey said. “I’d never seen anything like it; it was even better than I expected.”

Simon gave her another curt nod. “I’m delighted to hear that it exceeded your expectations.”

Gracey looked back at the small woman standing beside them and shook her head slowly. “I thought for sure you were the woman on the stage. There’s such a similarity.”

Simon cleared his throat, clasped his hands behind his back. “May I introduce my cousin,” he said, “visiting from out of town.”

The woman smiled even more brightly, showing even, white teeth. She extended her hand. “Kit,” she said, her handshake limp and dainty. “Kit St. Laine. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”

Having grown up in Catholic schools, Gracey was relatively certain there was no Saint Laine, so she was relatively sure St. Laine was a stage name, so she was relatively confident the woman whose hand she was shaking was lying about her name. That struck her as odd, but she labeled the curious thought “None of my business” and pushed it out of her mind.

“So you own a bakery,” Kit was saying, eyes wide. “I just love pie.” She had the kind of voice that caressed her words, the kind of voice made for radio or untoward telephone operations. “My favorite is strawberry rhubarb. Do you sell that?” She leaned forward, hopeful. Gracey thought she looked like she was about to tip over.

“Sometimes, when strawberries are in season, but not right now,” she said. “But I do have a dozen flavors most days. Why don’t you stop by and try a slice on the house? Maybe even take a pie back home with you to…I’m sorry, where did you say you were from?”

“Vermont,” Kit said, shooting her cousin a mischievous look. She bit her bottom lip in anticipation. “I would love that,” she breathed. “Tell me, Gracey, which flavor would you recommend?”

Of all the questions in all the world, of all the inquiries, queries, petitions, and solicitations that had been offered up to Gracey in the past, “Which pie?” or some variation thereof, was Gracey’s absolute favorite. That moment where she was granted implicit permission to reach out with her heart and soul and touch the inner workings of another shining being to ferret out the perfect combination of confections that would elicit the greatest surge of joy was the single most brilliant point in Gracey’s day. It set her spirit on fire like nothing else. Brimming with anticipation, Gracey opened her heart to the woman standing in front of her, reaching out with her own tendrils of emotion to touch whatever emotions and pie ingredients lurked inside Kit St. Laine’s heart of hearts. She searched for one moment, two. But instead of finding contentment sprinkled with cardamom, or boredom laced with orange liqueur, amusement spiked with chocolate fudge sauce, or longing smoothed over with marshmallow topping, she found, to her profound dismay…nothing.

Nothing at all.

Kit was waiting for a response, her upturned face expectant and curious. Gracey blinked and offered a flustered smile. “Ah, well, apple crumb is my most popular,” she said, the words tripping out of her. “But right now Chocolate for Breakfast is selling like hotcakes. It’s a chocolate and espresso cream with a chocolate graham cracker crust. They’re single-serving pies,” she added, as though this made a difference. “You’re sure to get just enough.”

Delighted, Kit clapped her hands together, turning her bright, smiling face to her cousin, who offered merely an uninterested grin. “Well, I can’t wait to try it,” Kit said, eyes glittering. “It’s been such a pleasure talking to you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other before I leave. You take care, now.”

The magician offered Gracey an affected, tight-lipped smile as his cousin pulled him away from the befuddled pie baker. When they were perhaps twenty paces away, the Prime of Darkness sidled up beside her, a fried drumstick in one hand and a plastic cup filled with potato salad in the other. “We ready to go?” he asked.

Gracey looked around and spread her hands out before her. “The dedication ceremony hasn’t even gotten started yet!”

Darkness wiggled his shoulders in an ambiguous little shrug, took a bite of his chicken. “I didn’t think we were really staying for that. I’m sort of allergic to these kinds of things,” he said.

Gracey made a disgusted noise, the wind knocked out of her sails. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she said. Shoulders slumped, she turned on her heel and started for her car, motioning for the demon to follow. “All right, let’s go. I think I’ve had enough camaraderie for one afternoon anyway.”

Gracey and Darkness hoofed it to the car they’d parked a few blocks away, Darkness munching his fried chicken, Gracey wondering why her pie empathy had failed her for the first time in her life.

Watching from the far side of a banquet table, only one of the angels was glad to see them go.