Page 22 of Real Fake Hauntings

“Sonia asked me for help with—oh!”

“Oh?”

I ducked under his arm and tugged at his sleeve. “Let’s check your perimeter.”

His brows arched. “My perimeter?”

“Your fence.”

“Why?”

“In case you got a pentagram too.”

EIGHT

“A pentagram,” Ian repeated, allowing me to drag him toward the gate. My stomach grumbled, reminding me of the feast Key and the strays were consuming in his kitchen, but I ignored it. Checking Ian hadn’t been targeted was more important.

“Someone drew four pentagrams in blood overnight. Most of it animal, but there was human too. They also did some kind of spell.”

“Dark magic?”

“Or someone who wants us to think that. It could be their own blood.”

Not all use of blood in spells was bad. Some potions and wards required using your own blood or someone’s willing blood.

We arrived at the gate and began walking around the cemetery fence. The sight of the hip-high brick wall and iron spikes filled me with wistfulness. “Look, it’s how we first met.”

“We met by the graves.”

“Yes, but it all started here.” I pointed at the fence. This had been the beginning of my friendship with Dru as well, when she’d caught me trying to sneak into the cemetery. I let out a happy sigh. So many beautiful memories.

Ian harrumphed, but I knew he was pleased I linked his cemetery to my happy place.

“Where did they find the pentagrams?” he asked.

I told him about the spots and how nobody remembered anything unusual and there was a shocking lack of security cameras among the paranormal community in Olmeda.

“By the way,” I told him in a stern tone. “You shouldn’t leave all your doors open like that. What if someone sneaks in?”

“I have motion sensors on the gate and the doors. I get a notice on my phone.”

“What if someone gets over the fence? Fluffy alerted you to my presence, not your sensors.”

“Then it won’t matter if the doors are open or not, will it?” he countered dryly.

“You…may have a point there,” I admitted.

He flashed me a grin. “Have any suspects yet?”

I showed him my persons of interest to-do list.

“Bosko,” he read aloud. “Lydia, Janet… You think the shop owners painted their own walls?”

“It’s a possibility. Paint yours and three other random places to divert attention.”

He grunted—approvingly, in my opinion—and kept reading. “Pie guy, Sonia?”

“You never know.”

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