Page 18 of Wicching Hour

Declan parked his truck to the side of the wide front stairs and checked the time on his dash. “We can’t stay long.”

“We won’t,” I said, shoving him out the door.

“Pushy little thing,” he grumbled.

The bookstore was at the edge of the woods. The nearest neighbors were at the bottom of the long hill, which meant Orla’s home was quiet and private. That was part of the reason we wanted to use it as our crime-fighting clubhouse.

As we walked in, Orla came out from around a tall bookcase. Head tilted, she watched us for a moment and then said, “Is there another problem?”

She was a tall, thin woman—probably six feet tall—with long brown hair twirled up in a messy bun. Unlike those who aspire to the artful messy bun, Orla came by it honestly. She really seemed to just want it out of her way so she could see the page she was reading.

“Not tonight, no,” I assured her. “I wanted to ask you for a favor.”

She had bright gold eyes with orange flecks, ones that rarely blinked. At all. Clearly not feeling the need to make small talk, she waited for me to elaborate.

“Is there anyone else here?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Good. First, let me introduce my Great-Uncle Bracken. Like me, he’s a wicche.”

Orla stared at him a moment and then returned her focus to me. “I know. You both smell like wicches.”

“Might I ask,” Bracken began, “do you know a man named Cowen?”

Her head tilted to the other side as she moved forward, zeroing in on Bracken, who, strangely enough, didn’t seem at all bothered by her intense scrutiny. “Yes. How did you know him?”

Bracken sighed. “Did? Is he no longer with us?”

A line formed between Orla’s eyebrows. She was a beautiful woman, whose owllike mannerisms made her seem alien to humans. “My parents both died twelve years ago.”

“Oh, my dear,” Bracken said, shaking his head. “My condolences. I never met your mother, but your father was such a lovely man. He granted me an interview—let’s see—it had to be thirty-odd years ago now. I was researching shifters. Very little has been written about raptors and I was quite interested.”

He gestured to Declan. “People seem to believe werewolves are the only shifters.” He shook his head.

She barely spared Declan a glance before focusing on Bracken again. “True, but other than my parents, I’ve never met another Eurasian eagle-owl shifter.” Her hands fisted. “Do you know? Am I the last one?”

Bracken’s expression softened. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that. I, too, have never met another, save your father. If I ever do, I’ll be sure to tell you.”

She nodded, accepting his offer, though she looked sadder than when we’d arrived.

“I have a favor to ask you,” I began. “I have a cousin who’s a sorcerer.”

One long blink.

“Nick told me that,” she said, “but I wasn’t sure if he was making a joke I didn’t understand. Sometimes that happens.” She was referring to Officer Nick Garra, one of Detective Osso’s many black bear cousins. Nick was also a member of the Supernatural Justice League and the one who had invited Orla to join.

“No joke, unfortunately,” I confirmed.

Her eyes suddenly got wider. “I forgot refreshments. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

Declan and I grinned. She’d done this the last time we’d been here. She’d said she’d read about offering refreshments to guests in books across multiple genres, so she was sure it was the proper thing to do.

“We’ve eaten,” Bracken explained, “but I would very much like a cup of tea.”

Orla nodded and then disappeared into the back of the bookstore.

“Do you still have your notes from your interview with her dad?” I asked.

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