Page 1 of Wicching Hour

ONE

It’s a Talent That I Always Have Possessed

Opening night of The Sea Wicche Gallery and Tea Bar was finally here. I’d been planning it since I was little and saw the abandoned cannery for the first time. At first, I wanted to live here, but when I got a little older and would break in and run around, leaping over stagnant ponds of dirty water and playing with rusty machinery, I saw it for the potential it had. I started bringing my sketches with me, taping them up on the walls.

And now look at me. The cannery was remodeled into a huge, forty-foot-tall gallery with my studio and apartment taking a quarter of the space. The floors were dyed concrete that looked like a deep ocean blue. I’d painted the walls to look like water as well, from deep sea to surf.

If one looked closely enough, high on the wall above the front door, in the deepest part of the ocean, there lurked a sea monster, watching and waiting. The exterior of the gallery told us he wouldn’t be waiting long. I’d built thirty-foot long tentacles coming from the water under the cannery, appearing to be pulling the gallery into the ocean. I’d given the local fisherman quite a start when they’d first seen them.

I’d also painted one whole side of the building—the side people would see first driving from Cannery Row—to look as though the gallery was still an old condemned building that had tentacles breaking through the rotting boards. There’d been a number of articles written about the exterior of my gallery, which probably had something to do with why there were so many people packed in here tonight.

On the one hand, I’d done it. Having my own art gallery was a dream come true. On the other, having all these random people touching and judging my pieces was making my stomach churn and causing my head to pound.

I don’t do well in crowds. I’m a Cassandra wicche, meaning I can see the future. And the past, come to that. I’m an empath and keep covered neck to fingertip and toe, because psychometry is also a gift of mine. Everyone wanted to shake my hand. I wear gloves always, as I don’t want to touch someone and drop into a vision, learning every hidden thing in their lives.

I hadn’t anticipated all the people wanting to hug me. Yes, my body was covered, but my face and hair weren’t. Hugging meant my highly sensitive skin touching cheeks or hair. I was trying to keep myself safe, so my boyfriend Declan, the werewolf Alpha of the Big Sur pack, and my agent Mary Beth were flanking me, keeping people at a safe distance.

I’ve been working with Mary Beth for many years. She’s half fae, like me, but her other half is human. She’s one of the most respected agents in the art world. She has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of all art, no matter the medium, time period, or location. Most see her as a hard-ass agent who knows all the major players and always gets her clients the best deals, but I know her as my slyly funny friend who is my biggest champion, refusing to let me undersell myself.

She’d arrived four days ago because she didn’t trust me to price my own art. She was clearly right to do that, as I would have gone much lower. As it was, pieces were still flying out the door and I was going to be set for months.

“Okay, shorty, the real money has arrived,” Mary Beth said. “Where did your mom go?” She glanced around and then made a quick movement with her hand. “Mom’s on her way.” She glared at Declan. “Do not leave her side.” She glided off, the masses separating before her.

In my defense, I’m not short. Am I as tall as my six-and-a-half-foot, super hot, bearded boyfriend? No. No, I was not. I was five-three and a half, which was a totally respectable height. Did I usually round up to five-four? Of course. I was simplifying.

Mary Beth’s mom is a beautiful Black woman, who is herself an artist. I’d met her once when I went to New York to meet with Mary Beth. Her mom is free and funny and open to the world. She’s also a gifted sculptor. I’m pretty sure Mary Beth’s father is a warrior elf, given she’s at least six feet tall. She has long, white-blonde hair she usually wears up, luminous golden-brown skin, and piercing gray eyes.

Arrowing through the crowd, she stopped beside an elderly couple in windbreakers and walking shoes who looked as though they’d wandered in accidentally.

“Do you know who they are,” Declan asked quietly, his arm protectively around my waist.

I shrugged. “No idea.”

My mom stepped in front of a wild-eyed man coming straight at me. Her fingers twitched at her side and he turned sharply, wandering off.

“Thanks,” I said.

Because it was opening night, we also had waiters weaving through the gallery, offering wine and appetizers. Mom was sipping the wine, but I couldn’t handle alcohol on a queasy stomach.

“I worry, darling,” she said. “I know you’ve always wanted your own gallery, but this gives people too much access to you.” She moved forward and to the left, trying to hide me. “You know how crazy some humans get when they’re near you.” She lowered her voice, “And demons can look like anyone. Your cousin’s friend could disguise himself as any of these people. With this crowd and all the shielding you have to do to keep their thoughts and emotions out of your head, he could walk up and snatch you before you even realized what he was.”

Declan’s arm tightened around my waist, as he too started glaring at people who came too close. Shaking her head, Mom flicked her fingers again, clearly sending spells to make others forget they’d seen me. Many patrons either walked away looking frightened or with a vaguely confused look in their eyes.

“That security guard you hired isn’t watching people to make sure they don’t steal. What is he even doing?” My mom was used to being in charge and I was sure this all felt too chaotic to her.

“You look beautiful,” I said. “I told you the blue dress would be perfect tonight.” Mom was gorgeous to begin with, with Corey black hair, fair skin, and deep green eyes. It had taken some doing, but I talked her out of her very conservative black suit and into a flowing, wrap-around silk dress in blues and greens.

“You do look very pretty, Ms. Corey,” Declan said.

Staring out at the crowd, she said, “Yes, well, that’s nice to hear, but I’d rather discuss your security.”

“Oh, that’s right,” I said, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “I haven’t told you. Bracken and I created a ward. If someone tries to steal one of my pieces, tries to hide it and walk out—that part’s important—it disappears from their pocket or bag and reappears in its original spot.”

Mom’s focus snapped to me. “What? How—that’s amazing. You need to share it with me so I can share it with the family. Excellent,” she said, nodding. “No more pilfered goods in our shops.” She thought a moment. “So, is your guard just for show?”

“No,” I said. “That’s Carter, Detective Osso’s younger brother.” Like Declan, he was six-and-a-half-feet tall, with shoulders even broader than a werewolf’s. He was a dark-skinned Black man who, like his brother, wore a perpetual scowl. “He’s working on a PhD in Marine Biology. We’ll only be open a couple of days a week, so it shouldn’t cut into his dissertation time too much. The ward should keep my artwork safe. He’s here to watch people.”

“Oh,” Mom said. “Good. But I still don’t see how you can possibly make a living only being open two or three days a week.”

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