Page 7 of Wicching Hour

We walked them out the front of the gallery, where they had a town car waiting to take them to the airport. They’d flown to the West Coast just for my opening.

Selling my art wasn’t new for me. I’d been doing it since I was a teen, and Mary Beth made sure I always made top dollar. So, yes, I was used to my work selling. It was normally done through private channels, through galleries in different parts of the world, my work just one of many from scores of wonderful artists.

This time, it was my gallery filled with my work, and it felt different.

As we watched the car pull away, Mary Beth turned to me. “Who is that on your deck?”

“Detective Hernández. We went to high school together back in the day. Not that we were friends or anything. She was cool and popular?—”

“And you weren’t,” she interrupted, leading the way back into the gallery.

“Exactly. Anyway, she remembered the rumors about me, and she was dealing with a child abduction case, so she came to see if I could help. That was a few cases ago. My guess is she has a new one she wants my help on,” I said, locking the front door behind us. I let her walk through the door to the studio first and then closed it behind us and headed for the back door.

Hernández was leaning over the railing of the deck, looking down. I wondered if my octopus friend Cecil was saying hello. When I came out, she turned with a smile that faltered as her gaze lifted over my shoulder.

It was a clear, glorious day. “Morning. Detective Hernández, this is my agent. Mary Beth, this is Sofia Hernández.”

“Good morning,” Mary Beth said. “And how much is the police department paying for your highly unique and extremely valuable gifts?”

Hernández was caught off guard. “Oh. I did offer but?—”

“Leave her alone,” I said, drawing up a stream of ocean water to reverse the effects of sleeping with Declan. As a null, he messed with my magic. Did it mean I got to touch him without hearing his thoughts or being dropped into visions? Hell, yes. It also meant some of my abilities were smothered. Dad’s DNA ensured that, with a little ocean water, I was back to factory settings.

Cecil’s tentacle slapped the surface in greeting.

“Good morning, Cecil,” I called down before turning back to the detective. “Is there any chance you’re just visiting to be social?”

When she shook her head, I sighed. Someone was dead.

FOUR

True. She Is Scary and Hot

Cecil slapped the surface again, taking my mind momentarily off murder. The last time I swam under the deck, I’d found that Poppy had made a safe little den for their eggs with rocks against one of the pylons holding up the deck.

The gallery had been a fish cannery in its past life. Gran purchased the dilapidated building when I was little because she said she knew it would one day be mine. Years later, with money from my first big sales, I purchased the property from her and began remodeling.

Two of the outermost purple-algae-covered pylons were home to my large, gorgeously orange starfish friends Charlie and Herbert. “Good morning, gentlemen. You’re looking quite dapper.”

Mary Beth leaned over as well. “Hello, Cecil. Thank you for looking out for our girl.” One of Cecil’s tentacles rose above the water and swirled in a circle before dropping under again. “See?” she said, nudging me with her elbow. “He likes me best.”

“P’fft.” I scanned the ocean, looking for a dark head to pop up. “Wilbur?” I called, looking for my selkie friend. We played fetch most days, but he’d been absent more and more often lately. He was a guard my father sent to watch me. Perhaps Dad had decided I didn’t need the extra protection. I worried, though, that it was more that Dad needed him back, that something more pressing was brewing under the surface.

“So,” Mary Beth said, sitting on a bench, “why aren’t you letting the police pay you for your services?”

I turned back to see Hernández watching my agent warily. That showed good sense. Mary Beth was no one to mess with. Hernández, though human, knew that supernaturals existed. She knew her sometime detective partner Osso was a bear shifter. She knew I was a wicche and Declan a werewolf. She’d even met a vampire and part demon. I was surprised she hadn’t run for the hills yet. The way she clocked Mary Beth told me she was pretty sure my agent wasn’t completely human either.

“Because,” I said, “if they’re coming to me for help, it means that someone is dead and I refuse to profit off some else’s tragedy. Bad juju, that.”

Mary Beth thought a moment and then nodded. “Sensible.” She stood. “I’m going to put special stickers on all the Winslow purchases. I’ll have the shippers come Monday, when you’re closed. You’ll be here to direct them, yes?”

I nodded, sitting beside the detective. “Just give me the time they’re coming so I can make sure I’m here.”

“Good,” she said, heading back in. “I’ll call my contact and set it up.” Just before she closed the door, she turned back. “You open at two this afternoon, right?”

I nodded.

She skewered Hernández with a glare. “She has her own work to do. Don’t make her late.”

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