Page 1 of The Witch & the Hound
Chapter 1
Maggie
The problem with artisanal soap is that it takes forever to cure, and boutiques don’t care if you’re one woman with a backyard workshop; they want their pumpkin spice bars yesterday.
Which was how I ended up in the “big city” thirty minutes away from home, sweating under the fluorescent lights of Barrow’s SuperMart, trying to hunt down ten pounds of citric acid and silicone molds shaped like bats.
Big city, ha! The place had one half-decent Thai restaurant and a multiplex that played blockbusters six weeks late. But Barrow’s SuperMart had bulk supplies, so here I was, navigating the warehouse-sized maze.
I cut between the seasonal aisle and the start of the toy section, pushing my tote cart with the grim determination of a woman on a deadline. On one side, plastic pumpkins leeredfrom endcaps. Skeletons in polyester cloaks rattled every time someone brushed too close. The other side was an ode to toxic femininity. A toddler was already crying as I rolled past the Barbie section, intending to cut through.
And then it hit me.
Hell’s own hot flash.
One second I was fine; the next I was standing in the center of the aisle, hairline erupting like Vesuvius, skin prickling as if I’d been hexed from the inside out. Heat rolled through me, starting in my chest and blazing outward, a curse with no counterspell.It wasn’t just sweat; it was betrayal. My own body staging a coup in public, and all I could do was ride it out.
“Not now,” I muttered, fumbling for the little folding fan I kept in my tote. My vision blurred. Sweat poured down my back. My freckles disappeared under a crimson flush.God forbid this happen in private, where I could collapse with dignity on my couch. No, it had to be in view of the Disney princesses.
Someone gasped.
I gripped the edge of a shelf, trying to steady myself. That's when I noticed the Barbie Corvette's headlights flickering. Then the karaoke machine beside it crackled to life, belting out a tinny version of "Let It Go."
Someone else shrieked.
And then the toys started going off.
The plastic drum kit banged to life on its own. An animatronic werewolf in the Halloween aisle launched into a howling fit. Lights on the shelves flickered like a disco, strobing my humiliation for the entire aisle to enjoy.Perfect. Heatstroke with a side of paranormal poltergeist chic.
“Mama, is the lady gonna die?” a little girl whimpered, clutching her Elsa doll.
Oh, excellent. Exactly what every forty-something woman wants: to collapse in front of the princess aisle looking like she’s spontaneously combusting.
I staggered, tried to fan myself harder, only to catch my foot on a display of stuffed unicorns. I went down hard, a graceless heap of sweat, curls, and witchcraft. The aisle erupted in screams. A pair of little girls started crying, wailing something about “Merida’s melting!”
Kill me now.
“Manager!” someone bellowed. “Get the manager!”
My vision blurred, and for a second, faded to a pinpoint of bright light.
And that’s when he arrived.
I didn't see him at first. I was too busy contemplating whether linoleum might actually be comfortable if you committed to it. But Ifelthim. A presence that made the air shift, that caused the crying to quiet to sniffles, that made the flickering lights steady themselves like they were trying to behave.
Then a shadow fell over me, tall and unmistakably not human. The crowd that had gathered for the spectacle parted like he was Moses and they were the Red Sea, except instead of a staff, he had a pair of curling black horns that caught the fluorescent glare and threw wicked shadows across his face. Skin the color of midnight, so dark it was almost black, but with a blue undertone visible where the harsh lighting hit his cheekbones and jaw. Amber eyes that glowed like backlit honey. Shoulders that blocked out half the aisle.
The monster manager.
"Out of the way," he said, voice low and steady, and people actually listened. Even the animatronic werewolf went quiet, which had to be some kind of miracle. His voice carried through the aisle with an authority that made adults remember their manners, if not the children.
He crouched, assessing me with those strange amber eyes, eyes that caught the light like a dog's in headlights, reflecting gold. "You alright?" he asked, and his voice was surprisingly gentle for someone who looked like he'd stepped out of a medieval bestiary.
"I was before I started flopping around on the floor like a dying fish." Different heat flooded my face, the mortification kind. "Though I hear embarrassment is rarely fatal."
"Lucky for you," he said, flashing a crooked grin that made things in places happen, "you collapsed in the princess aisle.Which means I'm contractually obligated to rescue you." And before I could croak out a protest, he scooped me up like I was nothing more than a bag of flour.
The wailing doubled in volume behind us.
