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flowing purple and silver curtains, and tucked her into the back booth, which kept her hidden from prying eyes. “Let’s get that cloak off you. I’ll throw it in the dryer.”
    “You have a dryer?”
    “My apartment’s upstairs,” she said. “Me and my husband, Rilton, bought this building a few months ago.”
    “You’re new here?” she asked. “And people were nice to you?”
    “I don’t move to dis town ’cause I want to meet nice people. I come ’cause dis where I’m supposed to be. We all got destinies, chil’, and mine is here.” Ember’s accent had thickened considerably.
    “It’s truly neutral ground?” Gratefully Lucinda slid into the booth, right next to her duffel. She wanted to cuddle up to it and sleep, but it was wet and lumpy and filthy, and she wasn’t exhausted enough to not notice.
    “All who enter here are safe.” Ember draped the wet cloak over her arm. “Now. I’ll bring you something, something just right.”
    “Wait.” Lucinda unzipped a pocket on her duffel and dug into it. Her fingers poked through a hole that hadn’t been there earlier. The four dollars and eleven cents she had left was gone.
    She should be used to it by now, but she still found herself devastated by the loss. “I don’t have any money.”
    “Seems like you don’t got a lot of things,” said Ember. “Don’t you worry about payin’ me.”
    “No menus?” asked Lucinda, and then wondered why she’d posed the question.
    Ember laughed. “Why do people need menus in here? Dey don’t know what’s good for dem.”
    “But you do?”
    “Of course, chil’.” She smiled. “Sit dere and relax. I bring you just da ting.”
    “Ember.” Lucinda swallowed the knot in her throat. “I’ll never have money. Not ever. My name’s Lucinda Rackmore.” She waited for the inevitable expression of distaste, waited for Ember to invite her to leave, waited for the rejection that always came.
    “Hello dere, Lucinda Rackmore. Welcome, welcome.” Ember reached down and patted her on the shoulder, then turned and sauntered through the door a couple feet away. It swung open and allowed out the sounds of food preparation as well as the sweet smells of baked goods.
    Ember’s kindness poked holes through Lucinda’s fragile control. Everyone she’d known had turned away from her, and this stranger had offered her both comfort and help—even after she’d revealed she was a Rackmore witch.
    It was too much.
    Lucinda laid her head down onto the table and wept.

Chapter 2
     
    “That’s no way to talk to a lady, son,” called out a cranky old voice from the kitchen. The Texas accent twanged all the way through his words. “I expect better from my kin.”
    “Yeah, dude,” chimed in another voice, this one younger and all 1980s California. “Total asshole move. You suck.”
    Gray Calhoun rolled his eyes. He didn’t need advice from his grandfather, Grit, much less admonishment from Dutch the Surfer.
    For the last five minutes, Gray had been leaning against the front door, trying to breathe. Narrow windows lined the heavy wood door, and he’d watched from one while Lucy trudged off the porch and down the street, the rain beating at her as she headed toward downtown. He almost expected her to turn back, to try again. It was obvious she had no pride left. He’d never seen anyone, much less the once haughty, spoiled Lucinda, so achingly desperate.
    Even though he owed her nothing, he still felt guilty.
    He shouldn’t have slammed the door in her face. At least he could’ve given her some lunch and allowed her to rest before sending her away. Hell, he could’ve even given her a ride to the bus station and gotten her a ticket to Dallas or Houston or wherever.
    He really was an asshole.
    His temple throbbed, and he reached up to trace the top of the scar. Lucy hadn’t given him the mark, or the bad memories, or the nightmares. She hadn’t condoned her sister’s actions or tried to do the same to anyone else