Chapter 1

Five stories of restored turn-of-the-century brownstone dampened the sound of torrential rain falling from the sky. On the street outside, the storm compounded the cacophony of New York City, tires splashing through puddles on the black top and people splashing through puddles on the sidewalk—even in a downpour, the city didn’t stop. Lola stamped water from her rain boots.

The large house belonged to a Mrs. Gertrude Gale, who had come to the office of M. Fletcher, PMP—Practical Magic Professional—for help. “How long do you think we’ll have to stay here, Fletch?” Lola asked her husband.

Slim build, broad shoulders, trim waist, and long legs, standing six foot four, Milo Fletcher towered over Lola and most other mortals. His black curls hung down over his ears, framing an angular face and Roman nose. A dark dusting of stubble on his chin, the perpetual five o’clock shadow, gave him the quality that Lola had explained to her girlfriends as magically, roguishly sexy. He wore black slacks and matching waistcoat, a light blue dress shirt, a black silk tie with a western pattern of little horses, lassoes, cacti, and six pointed stars weaved in, and black cowboy boots. If it weren’t for his lack of cowboy hat and his tie tack with the gold circle and rune Venere Magicae logo—the Sorcerer’s order he had apprenticed with—etched on the front, Milo Fletcher could’ve easily starred in a Clint Eastwood flick. He had the Texas twang when he talked, too.

“Depends on what we’re dealing with here, darlin’” Fletcher winked at Lola and glided into the gallery beyond the foyer.

Lola’s heart dropped into her stomach with nervous excitement, the same feeling she got with every new case. She had been fresh out of college—the only non-magical in her class to successfully graduate with a major in Business Administration and a minor in Sorcery from New York University—when she’d applied for the Sorcerer’s Assistant position on Monster. Her classmates and friends all had normal careers as secretaries, office managers, and other dead-end jobs.

Finding something she was uniquely qualified for hadn’t been a cakewalk since she wasn’t magical, and typically a Sorcerer took on an Apprentice—who was magical— and not an Assistant. Lola thought about the first time she’d met Fletcher. His office was in a building in South Bronx above a tattoo parlor, sandwiched between a Private Investigator and a Bail Bondsman.

The gold vinyl lettering on the single glass pane of Fletcher’s office door peeled up at the edges, and the comma between Fletcher and PMP was missing completely. There was a secretary’s desk, sanssecretary, in the front room. The space was divided by a half-wall, half-glass partition, and the actual door to Fletcher’s office was propped open with a file box. Lola glanced up at the ceiling fan, spinning slow circles, too slow to generate any breeze.

“How can I help you?” Milo Fletcher stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest.

Lola’s eyes widened. She’d never seen a Sorcerer that looked…attractive…and normal. He was wearing a beat-up pair of Reeboks, faded straight leg jeans—Wrangler’s to be exact—and a plain gray T-shirt. Her professors at NYU had always been clad in a way that broadcast their magical status—a cloak or pointed hat had been the fashionable choice her freshman year.

“I’m Viola Lynch, I’m here for my interview.” A drop of sweat slid down the back of her neck. She smiled. His eyes were silver, Lola noticed.

“Oh, right.” Fletcher turned around and rummaged through a pile of papers on his desk. “You don’t appear to have any real work experience for the last five years, can you explain the gap in employment?”

Lola mentally rolled her eyes—the standard interview question. She shifted her weight from one foot to another, anchoring herself in preparation for hitting another metaphorical brick wall. She wished he weren’t so damned hot; it might be easier to talk to him. “College.”

“Five years?” Fletcher arched an elegant eyebrow.

“Four, and it’s hard to get work experience when no one hires you.” She frowned. Couch surfing had been second nature since graduation and Lola refused to let her father be right—she was not destined to fail, to become some average joe—miserable, over-worked, and underpaid.

Fletcher chuckled. “Why do you want this job?”

“Because I want an income.” Sarcasm escaped before Lola could catch herself. Her fair skin flushed red, heat spreading across the bridge of her nose and cheeks.

“You’re hired,” Fletcher said.

“Seriously?”

Fletcher nodded. “I like you and you’re the only applicant.”

Has it really been five years since I met Fletcher? We’ve only been married for three, right?

“Stripper dressed like a giant bunny rabbit,” Fletcher said.

Lola blinked. She’d been so engrossed in her reverie that she hadn’t heard Fletcher talking to her. “What?”

Fletcher moved to the stairs and gestured for Lola to follow. “See the footprints?”

Lola’s gaze followed the length of her husband’s outstretched arm down to the dust on the stairs’ railing. She bent close, holding the cowl neck of her black sweater so it wouldn’t hit the dirty wood, and peered at a six-inch section of mahogany with tiny, barely discernable footprints. “Fairy?”

“That’s a cloven hoof print, you can see the clear demarcation between the toes.” Fletcher gestured again.