Page 9 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

“No.” I pulled my wallet from my purse, “I’m a loner. My mom is still getting used to the idea that I don’t do Christmas the same as the rest of the family. The manor is going to see some new traditions come Winter Solstice.”

“The manor?”

“Yeah, I guess it’s called Blackbriar Manor—the estate I inherited.”

“Ooo— fancy .” Katie playfully mocked.

“It is huge for sure, but it could use a lot of work.” My gaze shifted to the large blueberry muffin I snuck into the cart—drool. “So… what about you—solitary?”

She hesitated for a moment but then smirked.

“You could say that. Solo. I mean, I have the aunts, but we kind of do our own thing. Everyone knows about us though, our family dates back to early Salem, when our ancestors fled during the witch trials. For generations we avoided cities, sticking to the outskirts and countrysides. Now that countryside is Port Grey.”

“$302.63.” The cashier’s voice pierced the air.

My jaw dropped.

“Christ. For a couple of things? I’m gonna need work ASAP.” I shot the pimply teen a dirty glare like it somehow was his fault my bill was almost a quarter of my entire rent payment for a month.

The fluorescent lights above flickered in rhythm with my heart as I struggled to pick my jaw from the floor and put my card back into my wallet.

“It was the muffin.” Katie teased as she helped put the paper bags into the cart. “You know, my aunts still talk about the Satanic Panic of the 80s and 90s. Their business suffered back then because people were so terrified of ‘inviting demons into their homes.”

“Oh? My mom was paranoid about the same thing.” I shifted my weight and mimicked her by placing a hand on my hip and waving a finger, “You’re messing with the devil, young lady.” Then I dropped the act. “Pretty sure the devil’s got better things to do.”

Katie giggled.

“One time, I told her I was adding lavender to my bath, and the devil would be too relaxed to tempt me if he followed me in there. She was not amused.” I collected the last bag and asked Katie if she needed help to her car.

She grinned. “Not a car. Come on, I’ll show you.”

She led me out the door and around the corner.

“Ta-da!”

A trike was painted in a rich black-plum with flickers of emerald that shimmered in the sunlight.

Two wire baskets were rigged onto it—one up front between the handlebars and one in back big enough to smuggle a raccoon.

Ornate silver roses curled around the fenders like something out of a Gothic fairytale.

“This is Raven,” she said, arms wide like she was unveiling a prized steed. “Rook’s usually in my pocket—or my bathtub.”

I blinked. “I feel like I should be worried about what that means.”

“You should. But you won’t be.”

I stared at the trike, trying not to be charmed by it—or her.

The metal plate on the back basket caught my eye:

Raven & Rook Metaphysical

Call Katie at 555-3663

for all your magical needs

“I have questions. But first—you have a spell-shop?”

“Sort of. It’s a spare room in my apartment right now, upstairs from an old laundromat—tiny place, smells like incense and dryer sheets.

” She rocked back on her heels. “Landlord’s selling it, though.

I’m this close to buying the entire building.

” She held up two fingers, barely a breath apart.

“Just need the rest of the down payment before someone turns it into a vape lounge or a tax office.”

I nodded, impressed. “Well, if you ever need help painting or purifying hexed laundry machines, I’m your girl.”

Katie snorted. “Noted. Want my number in case you get curious?”

She held my gaze for a beat longer than expected with a glint of mischief in her eyes. She leaned over and tapped the sign. I took the hint and snapped a photo, and she struck a ridiculous pose—tongue out, throwing horns like a glam-rock forest witch.

“Marble Bistro,” she said, straddling the trike like a throne. “Tomorrow. Eleven. They do coffee like it’s a love language.” She straddled the seat. “See you there?”

“Maybe you will.” I smiled.

She pedaled off, pigtails bobbing with each push of the pedals, and I stood there gripping my keys, watching her disappear down the leaf-littered sidewalk.

I didn’t know if we’d be friends, flirt buddies, or just two weirdos who bumped carts at a wanna-be Whole Foods—but she was interesting.

And in a town full of questions, that felt like a win.

Graham

Nettles pulled into the lot without killing the engine. The place looked normal at first glance—normal if you ignore the half-open garage door and the fact that Paulie never missed a day. The guy was a pain in the ass, but he ran this place like a ship’s captain afraid of mutiny.

“Secretary said she called Paulie’s house and cell twice, no answer,” Nettles said, reaching for the door handle. “Truck’s out back, shop should’ve been open hours ago.”

I nodded. “And we’re just the lucky bastards close enough to check it out.”

“Better than paperwork.” He said from the corner of his mouth.

“Debatable.”

We got out. The wind carried the usual blend of motor oil and rusted ambition. The kind of smell you learn to ignore in places like this.

The side door wasn’t locked. That was the first red flag.

I stepped behind Nettles, scanning the shop for anything unusual. One car up on the lift. Tool drawers half open, a creeper board kicked off to the side like someone left in a hurry—or got interrupted.

There’s a rhythm to mechanic shops. You learn it. A sound to them—tools clinking, compressors hissing, classic rock bleeding from an old radio. Silence in a shop like this? That’s noise in itself.

“Coffee’s still hot,” I said, nodding at the mug on the desk with small wisps of steam coiling into the air. “He was here.”

Nettles stepped toward the back hallway. I stayed in the bay. Something didn’t sit right. Not fear, not even suspicion. Just… tension. Like the air was waiting for me to figure out what it already knew.

That’s when I saw the smear.

Faint. Dragged. Just a couple inches near the floor drain, but not in the way oil settles. It was thicker—duller.

I crouched down, ran a finger along the edge. It was dried and reddish.

Could be blood. Could be something else.

But I didn’t believe in something else anymore. Not in Port Grey. Not since the uptick in wackjobs flooding in for summer vacation.

“Nettles,” I called, straightening up. He rounded the corner a second later, eyebrows already raised.

He looked at the smear, then at me.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked.

“I’m thinking Paulie didn’t just forget to clock in.” He exhaled. “Locke, there are no signs of forced entry. Nothing obvious missing.”

“Except Paulie.”

Nettles pulled out his phone and snapped a couple pictures. “We’ll get forensics out here. Maybe he cut his hand and bolted for a tetanus shot. Maybe he’s drunk in a ditch.”

“Or maybe someone wants us to think that,” I muttered, glancing around again. “The place is too neat. It feels wiped down.”

He gave me a look. “You watching conspiracy videos again?”

“And take time away from my regularly scheduled porn sessions?”

“Be professional Locke, that’s my one request.” Nettle side-eyed me.

“Not on your life. Nothing in this shop makes sense. No signs of a fight. No apparent motive. He’s just gone.”

The radio crackled. Dispatch again. Judy’s voice.

“Unit 42, come in. We’ve got a possible 10-54 at 121 Primrose. Civilian found a bloody knife in the front yard. Dog dug it up under a rosebush.”

Nettles swore under his breath and keyed his mic. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Judy said. “Neighbor called it in. Knife’s real. Still got blood on it.”

I looked at him. “Primrose? Isn’t that the old P.I.’s place? What was his name?”

He nodded, already heading for the door. “Yep, Silas Harney. Lived at Blackbriar Manor, about a block south.”