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“C
arlina Bell Hartwell, you’re not too old for a switchin’,” my mama proclaimed over the phone, her tone sharp and dangerous.

There was very little that struck fear into most Southern girls’ hearts quite like her full name being angrily articulated by her mama.

Fortunately, I wasn’t like most Southern girls, so I wasn’t too worried about my mama’s threat. Besides, in all my thirty years, my mama had never once taken a switch to me. She was a five-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound, blond-haired bundle of bluff and bluster.

The cordless phone—there was no cell phone coverage within town limits—was wedged between my ear and shoulder as I unpacked a delivery of potion bottles. “What did I do now?”

It could have been any number of things, truly. An unfortunate result of my quick temper, inability to filter comments when angry, and my natural mischievousness.

Those were just a few of the many traits that proved I wasn’t quite like everyone else here in Hitching Post, Alabama, but at the very tippy-top of the why-Carly-is-not-normal list, the cherry atop my wackadoodle sundae, was that I was a white magic witch and empath.

There was absolutely no denying that was plain ol’ strange. So I didn’t even try. I embraced my oddities wholeheartedly and used my abilities to make healing and love potions here at the Little Shop of Potions, a shop that’s been in the Hartwell family for fifty years.

“I ran into Hyacinth Foster at the Pig,” Mama said, her voice rising to earsplitting heights.

The Pig. The Piggly Wiggly—the name of our local grocery store.

“And she said you RSVP’d
no
to the masquerade ball tonight at the Ezekiel mansion. What were you thinking? You know how important this is to your daddy, Carly.”

The black-tie masquerade ball was bound to be as deadly dull as the people hosting it, all stiff and starched, prim and proper.

Everything I definitely was not.

“To
Daddy
?” I asked as I examined a jade-colored potion bottle, running my fingers along its facets to make sure there were no chips or cracks. Holding it up, I let the light shine through and admired its transparence, which revealed tiny bubbles suspended within the glass. It was a beauty. All the bottles were, really. Specially made by a local glass blower, each was unique, each a work of art.

After making sure the stopper was snugged tight, I walked the bottle over to the wall of floor-to-ceiling shelves, which held bottles of every size, shape, and color, and tucked it in, turning it just so. The bottle wall was the shop’s main attraction, and it was easy to see why as sunshine streamed in the front windows and hit the bottles, blasting brilliant rainbow-colored streaks of light across the walls and wood floor.

Glancing out the window, I noticed the color outside almost rivaled the beauty in the shop. Hitching Post in late October was a glorious sight to behold, with sunlight setting afire the vibrant foliage of the Appalachian foothills in the distance.

“Don’t take that tone with me, baby girl. Yes, your daddy. You know how important this event is to him. The Harpies are a big damn deal, and you know how hard he’s worked to even be considered for a spot on the committee. He’s already got one strike against him, him unfortunately being a man and all.”

Poor Daddy. I reckoned she hadn’t minded a whit about his being a man before this Harpies madness started up.

The Hitching Post Restoration and Preservation Society, the Harpies for short, was a small group of five influential townsfolk, who were well-known for their successful fund-raisers, restoration projects, and elitism. Primarily consisting of uppity women, it had taken twenty years for them to admit the first man into their folds—Haywood Dodd had joined six months ago. And if the rumors were to be believed, he had been allowed into the group only because of his relationship with Hyacinth Foster, the long – standing president of the Harpies who, despite being an off-the-charts philanthropist, was more well-known for having buried three husbands. There were whispers around town about her being some sort of Black Widow, but no one had ever dared to out-and-out accuse her of wrongdoing.

If Haywood had heard the whispers, he paid them no heed. He was head over heels for her.

Hay and Hy.
The cuteness factor was enough to make me a little nauseous.

In addition, gossip had been circulating all week about a big announcement Haywood planned to make at tonight’s event. Speculation ranged between his popping the question to Hyacinth in front of God and everyone to announcing his resignation from the group.

Admittedly, I was quite curious about it myself, as Haywood was rather shy and not one to seek a spotlight. It had to be something really big. Enormous. And I wanted to know what.

I was nothing if not nosy.

All I knew was that the announcement was giving him anxiety, as he’d come in earlier for a calming potion. I’d tried to wheedle information from him, but he hadn’t given me so much as a hint to go on. He had just kept saying, “You’ll find out tonight.”

Running low on air, Mama sucked in a breath and started on me again. “As you darn well know, tonight’s masquerade ball is an audition of sorts to see how your daddy fits in, and how’s it going to look if you don’t attend to support him? His only child! His flesh and blood! I’ll tell you how it’ll look. Bad. Horrible. A slap in the face of all that is good and righteous!”

My mama was in quite the tizzy, and Veronica “Rona” Fowl in a tizzy was quite entertaining, let me tell you.

But no matter how fiercely she tried to spin it, I knew this was all
her
idea. She was jumping through these Harpie hoops for one reason and one reason only.

Daddy was driving her batty.

Ever since his hours had been slashed at the public library, he’d been a bored, mopey mess of a man, and my mama was ready to sell his soul to get him out of her hair.

She’d filled out all the Harpie paperwork and forced Daddy to fork over an enormous donation to the Ezekiel mansion’s restoration fund . . . and browbeat him until he made one in my name, too.

It was the only reason I’d been invited to the masquerade ball, which was being held to celebrate the recent completion of the project. All donors were expected to attend. Otherwise, my name would
not
have made the cut on the invitation list due to my contentious relationship with the vice president of the Harpies.

Patricia Davis Jackson, the most uppity of them all.

Oh, fine. I suppose she had the teensiest bit of a soft side. After all, her nearest and dearest called her PJ—and had done so since she married Harris Jackson at age twenty-two, when she was fresh out of college.

I called her Patricia Davis Jackson.

Or plain ol’ Patricia.

Or the Face of Evil.

It was a toss-up most days.

She’d almost become my mother-in-law (twice), and we had a long history of hating each other. I’d once poked her in her butt with a pitchfork, and she’d retaliated by ruining my first attempt to marry her son, Dylan Jackson, and had played a big role in the fiery failure of the second marriage try, too.

My mama knew all this, which spoke volumes about her desperation for my father to find a hobby.

“You know how I feel about the Harpies,” I said.

“Carly, this isn’t about
you
. It’s about your
daddy
. And you know very well that you don’t have issues with all the Harpies. Only one. You can suck it up for one night, buttercup.”

Her sympathy was heartwarming.

But she was right about my feelings for the group. As stodgy as the Harpies might be, their work was quite beneficial to the community, as evidenced by the refurbishment of the historical Civil War–era Ezekiel mansion. Before they’d gotten their hands on the place, it had been destined for collapse one crumbly brick at a time. Now it was a showpiece.

Patricia Davis Jackson made my blood boil, however, and I couldn’t easily overlook that fact. “She is enough.”

After our second failed attempt at getting married, Dylan and I had split up. He’d moved away, and I was left trying to pick up the pieces of my broken heart.

I vowed revenge on Patricia, but hadn’t been able to come up with a good plan to bring her down a notch that wouldn’t send me to jail. I’d been arrested once before (I was cleared of all charges, I swear!), and I didn’t care to go through that again.

In the end, it was fate that had delivered the ultimate comeuppance to Patricia. Eight months ago, Dylan had come back to Hitching Post, and this past summer we’d rekindled our relationship.

Patricia had been beside herself when she found out. And she was still beside herself now, three months later.

Bless her heart.

After dropping the cardboard box that the potion bottles had been delivered in onto the floor, I then gave it a gentle kick, sending it sliding to the center of the room. Like a mythological siren that called to unsuspecting sailors, it took only a second for the box’s enchantment to awaken two of the laziest creatures on Earth from their slumber.

Roly and Poly, my fluffy gray and white cats, raced to investigate this new and exciting addition to the shop, slipping and sliding and tumbling over each other to be the first to lay claim. Poly, with his considerable girth, never stood a chance at winning that contest. Slender Roly leaped into the box and immediately flopped on her back to roll about in ecstasy. Never one to be left out, Poly plopped in next to her, and I lowered the top flaps of their new fort. They’d be occupied for hours.

“And you know what day tomorrow is,” I reminded my mother.

Halloween.

Come midnight, my peaceful little witchy world would be on its way to hell in a handbasket.

At the reminder, a chill swept down my spine one vertebra at a time, raising goose bumps in its wake.

Halloween marked the day when some sort of between-world portal opened, and a few spirits started rising from their graves, followed by even more the next day—All Saints’ Day—but it was All Souls’ Day, November second, that made me want to hide under my bed like Roly and Poly did during a thunderstorm.

Because this was my storm. A ghostly one.

All Souls’ Day, a religious holy day spent praying for the dead, was when the majority of spirits who hadn’t yet been able to cross over for whatever reason rose from their graves and began wandering around looking for anyone to help them. Only a select few could even see the ghosts, and once eye contact was made, that was it. There was no getting rid of them until they saw the light . . . or until the portal closed again at midnight, November third.

For empaths, however, there was an added element to this ghostly dilemma. We could see them, and we could also feel them . . . what killed them, specifically. Although I had a charmed locket that helped me block unwanted energy from others, it was absolutely powerless against spirits. My best defense was to avoid them altogether.

Because of that, later today I’d close the shop for the night, and I wouldn’t be back until Wednesday morning, November third. During that time, my daddy and my best friend, Ainsley, would cover the shop in my absence.

I planned to hole up at home, lock my doors and windows, pull the shades, put on noise-canceling headphones and hide until it was safe to come out.

Mama let out a gusty breath. “Yes, I
know
. But that’s not until midnight. Plenty of time to make an appearance, talk up your daddy’s numerous qualifications, and get home before your carriage turns into a pumpkin.”

I glanced out the front window in time to see a miniature zombie waddle past the front of the shop, quickly followed by a vampire, two ice princesses, and a tall witch with a long black cape flowing out behind her.

In celebration of Halloween the town was hosting a big to-do all weekend. Today’s events included a treasure hunt, a jack-o’-lantern contest, and of course—because Hitching Post was the wedding capital of the South—numerous ghoulish weddings.

The witch peeled off from the rest of the pack and opened the door to the shop, a basket holding a little black dog looped over one arm, a garment bag draped over the other.

This time of year might be the only time of year my cousin, black magic witch Delia Bell Barrows, who wore that cape year-round, fit in with a crowd.

Delia came to a dead stop at the box in the middle of the floor, and Poly’s gray paw poked through the cutout handle as though waving hello.

Lifting a pale thin eyebrow, she glanced at me, amusement in her ice blue eyes.

“Mama,” I said, “I’ve got to go. Someone just came in.” She didn’t need to know it was a social visit and not a customer.

Delia set the basket on the floor, and her dog, Boo—a black Yorkie-mix—hopped out and immediately started sniffing the box. Poly stuck his arm farther out of the hole to tap Boo’s head. Bop, bop, bop.

“But Carly! We’re not—”

“I’ll see you tonight, Mama. At the party.”

“Wait!” she exclaimed. “What did you say?”

“I’ll be there. I’m Dylan’s plus one.”

Her voice rose to a twangy falsetto. “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”

I’d been known on occasion to incite my mother just to see her get all fired up. It was that mischievous streak in me. “I’ve got to go, Mama.”

“Fine. But, Carly?” she said, sugar sweet.

“Yes?” I slumped over the counter, exhausted from this conversation.

“Be sure to leave your pitchfork at home.”

My pitchfork was my home-protection weapon of choice. It had gotten a lot of use over the past six months, what with a couple of murder cases I’d been wrapped up in. It was also what I’d used when I forked Patricia Davis Jackson in her aerobically toned tush. I’d been tempted to smuggle it into the party tonight just for old times’ sake. “But—”

“Tonight has to be perfect,” Mama continued. “Our family must paint the picture of propriety.”

That was going to take a very large canvas and a small miracle. My family was anything but proper. “I can’t make any promises.”

“So help me, Carly Bell, if you raise a ruckus . . . There must be no scenes, no drama, no nothing, y’hear?”