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danced in the beams of Palmer’s headlights.
    Demons. Witch hunters. Pixie dust.
    Calypso had been staring at her for twenty minutes now, since the moment she’d gotten Arnie out of the bakery on a hunt for the perfect silver-coated nonpareils she required for the Augustine wedding cake. “Come on now. A deal’s a deal.” Cal wiped her hands on her apron and planted her fists on her hips. “How did the moose bite the dust?”
    Might as well jump right in. “He was attacked by a witch hunter.”
    A strange shadow crossed Calypso’s indigo eyes, and her dark red lips quirked. “Did he at least put up a good fight?”
    “I’m serious, Cal. I knew you wouldn’t believe me. It was a circus here last night. I heard noises in the alley, and when I went outside, there was this…guy out there with a sword.” Best to leave the Gogmar out of it for the moment. “Then this other guy showed up on a motorcycle, and he chased me around the kitchen.”
    “On a motorcycle?”
    “No. He left that outside. You’re not buying any of this, are you?”
    Cal turned her attention to the sheet of chocolate fondant she’d just rolled out on the coldstone at her workstation. “Hey, I’ve asked you to believe some wild things. Who am I to judge? What did this witch hunter look like, anyway?”
    Mel returned to her stirring to hide the self-conscious flush that crept up her cheeks. How could she describe Blake DeWitt? A man who was both drop-dead gorgeous and utterly terrifying defied description. “He was handsome, in a rugged way. Dark hair, light brown eyes—you know, whiskey colored? And he had a bit of an accent. Maybe Scottish. He wore leather.”
    Cal raised a sculptured brow. “Leather, you say? I thought your men wore flannel or they wore nothing at all.” She giggled, but there was a nervous undertone to the laugh that made Mel even more self-conscious. Did Calypso think she was lying?
    “So Larry worked in construction. He might have been a jerk, but he looked damn good in a tool belt.” Mel’s marriage had taught her all too well that looks weren’t everything. DeWitt’s piercing stare and craggy voice might have caused her a tingle or two, but the fact remained he’d been ready to do to her what he’d done to Marty.
    “So he hunts witches. Does that come with health bennies and a 401K these days?”
    “Apparently it comes with a curse.”
    Cal dropped her rolling pin. The thick wooden cylinder clattered to the floor and rolled away.
    “You okay?”
    “Fine.” Cal chased the pin across the floor, scooped it up and dumped it in the sink. She swept the kitchen with a suspicious look. “Mel, let’s not talk about this here. We can have the moose ready to go in two hours. Then we’ll jet, and you can tell me more about this witch hunter, okay?”
    Something about her tone didn’t bode well. Mel scanned the kitchen too and then spared a quick glance at Calypso. She seemed rattled, and nothing, except Angelo, rattled Calypso.
    Either way, Mel was certain now that Blake DeWitt was every bit as evil as Palmer had said, and Cal obviously knew a lot more about him than she was willing to let on.
     
     
    By 1:00 p.m., Marty the Second reclined in the industrial fridge, his antlers tall and proud and his sugary teeth pristine and straight. Mel was dead on her feet.
    After working the night shift at Gleason’s for more than a year, she’d gotten used to sleeping from dawn to early afternoon, so by the time she and Calypso managed to slip out and dash down Garden Street to Starbucks, she felt like a zombie.
    Calypso pushed a double-tall, full-caf chocolate latte into her hands and herded her to a secluded booth at the back of the coffee shop where the comingled scents of cinnamon, peppermint and rich Colombian roast swirled around them like a grandmother’s hug.
    Mel sighed into the first hot sip of her latte. If she closed her eyes now, she’d be out before the double shot of caffeine made its way into her