But if it were Julian, something else had to be controlling him, something dark—something sinister. That or he had done it to protect Beck and Earl. Jury had been the one to show up with a knife, after all. Julian would never go out of his way to purposely hurt someone. I refused to believe it.
“Poor Mr. Jury,” Fable added when I didn’t answer. “You know he was initiated into Sacred Sea just the week before he died. What the heck was he even doing over there?”
“He wasn’t always a witch?”
“No, Jury and his girlfriend were both flatlanders. Not born with magic in their bones, not like the families of the founders, but anyone can be a witch if they practice Wiccan beliefs. Years ago, he showed up when his car broke down on Archer Avenue, walked into Weeping Hollow on foot with nothing and has been here ever since. For a long time, Pruitt called him the Colorado kid, said he was born and raised in the mountains, could you imagine?”
“Are you friends with his girlfriend?”
“Carrie Driscoll? God, no,” Fable said adamantly. “Barely talk to her. That girl creeps me out, dude. But Mr. Pruitt eats out of the palm of her hand, and she’s our age. I don’t get it.”
“But Jury was fifty-three.” The age difference was a bit much—almost a thirty-year gap.
Fable shrugged and pursed her dark purple lips under her costume mask that matched my own. “They were total opposites, too. Carrie and Jury, I never understood it. Oh, look, there’s Monday.” Fable flicked up her wrist.
I turned to see Monday waving at us from the other side of the window with the rest of them huddled together on the street corner.
When we exited the coffee shop, the scent of corndogs, powdered funnel cakes, and caramel apples drifted up and down Town Square. Ladders hung from the eaves of the storefronts, and pennies littered the paved walkways and streets, flickering under the yellow lamp lights like copper diamonds. Black and white striped tents were set up everywhere. Each tent offered services such as palm readings and prophecies, merchants selling crystal balls, tarot cards, crystals and stones, censers to dispense incense, and so on.
Men walked on stilts around the gazebo, passing out pinstriped balloons to kids as the adults carried frosted chalices, half the town in costume masks, the other half not willing to tempt their fate.
“After about an hour or so, the kids will return home, and the real fun begins,” Monday pointed out, noticing me watching the kids as we approached. By this time, the sun had died, bringing in a chilling cold front. I wrapped my jean jacket tighter around my new black leather dress.
“Fallon,” Kane commanded my attention, his friends, Maverick and Cyrus, the two other guys I’d briefly met at Voodoos, at his side. “You look amazing.”
“Thank you.” Another breeze swept past us, taking my hair with it in a ferocious swirl.
Kane walked toward me, pushed my hair from my face, and took my coffee from my hand. By the time I’d lifted my hand to take it back, he’d already tossed it into the trash. “Let me get you a real drink.”
I didn’t let it show how much it angered me because his actions were already said and done, my sweet pumpkin spiced coffee already licking the bottom of the barrel. Boys should know never to take a coffee from the hands of a female…unless they were warming it up. However, I had no interest in wasting my energy on correcting Kane when I had profane thoughts for another; one who I was okay with never having to see his face if it meant I could be around him again.
We walked toward the booth where a large cauldron sat over a tray of dry ice, mist rising from the bottom. I peered inside to see red and golden swirls in the liquid. “It’s my Poisoned Apple Cider,” Mina Mae wiggled her brows as she filled a bronze chalice with a ladle.
“It’s so good! She makes it for every gathering,” Monday added, lifting a chalice from the booth.
For about an hour, we continued to walk the streets, looked into tents, drank poison from our cups, and goofed off with the superstitions. Half of the town wore masks, uncaring of whatever superstitions they came across. Many tried to trick those not wearing masks to walk under ladders or step on cracks in the walkways and streets. Those who wore masks defied superstitions by tempting fate, jinxing one another, avoiding picking up pennies, and walking backward up and down the streets.
When we reached the palm reader’s purple tent, I’d stopped and admired the drawing of the three hanging from the rods inside. The artwork was different from anything I’d seen before, with thick and diligent pencil lines and paint of dark colors. One was labeled Rose Madder. Another Wizard and Glass.
“Did you draw these?” I asked aloud.
The girl turned around, and her smooth hair like black ribbons cascaded around her shoulders. She had flawless skin, the color of syrup with a golden tint, and her honey-colored eyes embraced mine. “Yes, I only draw what comes to me.” Her voice was like velvet. She possessed the perfect complexion and had the face of a porcelain doll.
I walked deeper into the tent. “What’s your name?”
“Kioni.”
“The one who sees and finds needful things,” I said with a smile, and Kioni’s eyes looked at me quizzically. “My nanny was Kenyan,” I explained further. “Would you read my palm for me?” I’d never had my palm read, but I was desperate to get away from Kane’s strange behavior, if only for a moment. He’d said he wasn’t interested in me, but he hadn’t left my side all night.
Kioni’s face transformed, somewhat saddened. “I would love to, but I am hardly qualified. You see, I am watching the tent for my grandmother, Eleanor. You could always come back when she returns?”
“To be honest, I just need a breather. You don’t have to read my palm, just pretend?” I hooked my thumb behind me and added in a whisper, “Some of the people in this town are suffocating.”
Kioni’s laugh was breathy and sincere. She nodded, walking toward the entrance and released the tent flap from its tie. The festivities from outside turned into a distant chatter. The only light now had come from the glowing crystals and battery-operated candles that mimicked a flicker.
She pulled a chair from underneath the small round table. “Come, sit. Hide.” She smiled and lifted her chin toward my cup. “Is that Mina’s Poisoned Apple Cider?” I nodded, and Kioni leaned forward, setting her arms on the table, and continued, “Be careful. Mina Mae puts something in that drink. Some sort of truth potion she learned from an old witch called the Lone Luna. It’s supposed to enhance parts of your subconscious. Every event we have always ends in either a fight in front of the gazebo or an orgy at Crescent Beach, or both. Mina is known to stir the pot, as if Weeping Hollow needs any more stirring.”
“Sweet old Mina from the diner?”
Kioni’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, that woman may be sweet, but she’s smart as a whip. She’ll play both sides to whichever side suits her best at the time.”
“She’s not from here?”
“No, ma’am! And Mina doesn’t belong to a coven either. She’s the town’s bibi…or grandmother if you will. But I admire her. She loathes secrets, believes in letting our truths and madness air out every once in a while, too. Says it’s healthy.”