“I— Damn!” Wiping a finger under her lower lashes, Yolanda scowled. “Some dumb Blume threw a beer and got me square in the face.” She gave her other eye a wipe. “Talk to me, Amara. Why have you come here after fifteen years of not here?”
“I wanted to see Nana.”
“In that case, Portland’s an hour’s drive south and have a nice flight. Nana’s in St. Croix. Or maybe it’s the Cayman Islands. Anyway, you’ll find her if you look hard enough.” With the speed of a striking snake, she grabbed Amara’s trench coat and yanked her forward to hiss, “He’s mine. You got that?”
Amara pried her hand away. “I got it when you turned into a barnacle a minute ago.”
Her cousin’s eyes flashed. “I can make your life hell.”
“You can try.” And, she admitted silently, might have succeeded if Jimmy Sparks hadn’t beaten her to it. “In an effort to keep the peace, Yolanda, if McVey says he’s yours, he’s yours. And welcome to you.”
A finger jabbed her shoulder. “You can’t stay at Nana’s house while you’re here.”
“Yep, figured that one out, too.”
“Can’t stay with me and Larry, either.”
“Your brother, Larry, the nighttime nudist? Uh, no.”
The overhead lights surged and faded and caused an icy finger to slide along Amara’s spine.
“Stupid wind.” But Yolanda observed her more keenly now. “A little raven told me you had some heavy court action going on down south. Saw someone die who wasn’t on your operating table when it happened.”
She didn’t need this, Amara thought, but rather than snap at her cousin, she shrugged it off. “I saw. I testified. It’s done.” When the lights faded again, she added a quick, “Uh, how’s Uncle Lazarus?”
Yolanda sniffed. “Still pays me next to nothing to manage this rude branch of hell, but he’s a Blume, so what do you expect?” Her lips quirked. “Word is the man you testified against is the mean and powerful head of a family that’s into all sorts of nasty things. Extortion, weapons, drugs—murder.”
“My, what big ears you have, Grandma.” His pool-player problems apparently dealt with, McVey surprised Amara by dropping an arm over her shoulders. “Some analogies go on forever, don’t they, Red?” Before she could answer, he made a head motion at the crowd. “I’m seeing a lot of unfamiliar faces, Yolanda. They drifting in for the Night of the Raven Festival already?”
Amara knew her cheeks went pale. She glanced at a nonexistent watch on her wrist, then at the walls for a calendar. “Is it—? What’s today? The date,” she clarified, still searching.
“May 10,” McVey supplied. “Why?”
“What? Oh, nothing. I forgot...an appointment.”
But damn, damn, how on earth had she forgotten about the scores of strangers who drove, bussed, cycled and hitchhiked to Raven’s Hollow to take part in the three-day celebration known as the Night of the Raven?
The Night festival was the Hollow’s once-a-year answer to the Cove’s once-every-three-years Ravenspell. Although the story at the root of the events was the same, it was told from two very different perspectives. Over the years both events—the Cove’s in the fall and the Hollow’s in the spring—had become a magnet for every curse-loving fanatic in and out of the state.
This was, Amara realized, the worst possible time for her to be in either town.
Her smile nothing short of malicious, Yolanda drew a raven’s head in the residue of a spilled beer. “Bet the Cayman Islands are looking better and better about now, huh, Amara? Say the word and I’ll get right on my little computer and book you a flight out of Portland.”
When a shrill whistle cut through the crowd noise, she banged her fist on the bar. “I’m not a dog, Jake Blume. What do you want?”
He wagged the receiver of a corded wall phone. “Boss man’s on the line and he’s in a crappy mood.”
“I hate that man,” Yolanda breathed. “Both men. Remember the spiders, Amara.” With a lethal look for her cousin, she snapped the dish towel from her shoulder and vanished into a sea of bodies.
“She put a jar of them in my bed,” Amara said before McVey could ask. “Well, I say she, but Yolanda only had the idea. Jake and Larry collected and planted them.”
“In your bed.”
“Under the covers, at the bottom. She told them to leave the top off so the spiders could crawl around wherever. The things were big. I freaked and refused to sleep in that particular room again.”
McVey tugged on a strand of hair to tilt her head back. “Did you tell your grandmother?”
“No need.”
“Do I want to know why?”
“Because all three of them, Jake most particularly, are terrified of snakes.” She swept an arm around the room. “Is the fighting done?”
“For now.” He nodded at a row of dull brass taps that glowed an eerie shade of red under lights that continued to surge and fade. “Do you want a drink before we leave?”
“Poison is a witch’s weapon, McVey, and Yolanda’s a Bellam. But thanks for the offer.”
“Festival slipped your mind, didn’t it?”
She ran her hands up and down her arms. “Unfortunately. The prospect of eminent death must have pushed it out. I’ve only ever been to one Night celebration myself. If it’s of any interest to you—and it should be—the Hollow’s Night of the Raven isn’t quite as civilized as the Cove’s Ravenspell.”
“Translation, Tyler Blume deliberately planned his honeymoon so he’d miss it.”
“If you’ve met him, you know he did. On the other hand, Jake should be in his element.” She glanced up when the lights winked off. “Uh...” Then back on. “Okay, my nerves are getting a way bigger workout than they need.”
She heard a familiar double beep beneath wailing Tim McGraw. As she hunted in her shoulder bag for her phone, she saw McVey pluck a mug of beer from a much larger man’s hand.
“You’re over your limit, Samson. Unless you want to join your buddies in jail, go home.”
The man’s face reddened. “Gonna get my wife to put a pox on you, you don’t give that back, McVey.”
“Do it, and I’ll get Red here to put one on you.”
“My wife’s got an aunt who’s a Bellam.” The man jerked his stubbly chin. “What’s she got?”
Staring at her iPhone, Amara felt her brain go cold. What she had was a text message from a man who’d sworn he would only contact her in an emergency.
“Beat it,
