This discovery was your classic Pandora’s box scenario. A small group of witches, furious that the vampires and the wolves had abandoned them during their darkest time, began to use wolfberry and belladonna against them—sometimes without much provocation. The balance of power shifted once again, and while the witches’ discovery didn’t cause a full-out war, it did spawn thousands of skirmishes, minor battles breaking out between the three major factions. Eventually, the use of those herbs was “outlawed” in the Old World, but it was done the way that marijuana has been outlawed in the US—basically, don’t get caught. The witches are always arguing about this among themselves; some of them think it should be open season, and others think the ban should be more strictly enforced.

But while they may not be able to pull together a majority vote, in Los Angeles Kirsten has organized the witches into sort of an informal union. I know it sounds crazy, but if actors and directors can have unions in this town, why not witches? As I understand it, the real benefit to joining the union is access: to chat rooms, newsletters, support groups, spell sessions—and me.

The witches’ dues pay Kirsten a small salary, and she uses the rest to organize the network and pay me. There are plenty of “non-union” witches in LA, too, ones who either haven’t heard about the group or don’t want to be a part of it. Kirsten has to deal with their messes, too, because a public witch problem is every witch’s problem.

By night, Kirsten Harms-Dickerson is the most powerful known witch in Los Angeles, but by day, she’s a chirpy, polite-but-firm receptionist at one of the bigger talent agencies. Well, technically, she’s a receptionist, but really, she’s more of a gatekeeper, keeping the crazies out and the beautiful people in. She was out for a run when I called, but she picked up the phone anyway. Kirsten always answers. I explained the problem—without mentioning my impending execution—and she said she could easily go into work a few hours late.

Breathless and panting, she said, “Does this have anything to do with that La Brea Park...thing?” That was surprising. Someone was keeping Kirsten in the loop, for once.

“Actually, yeah.”

“No problem. I already told Dashiell I would help however I could. Give me half an hour, and come on over.”

Eli volunteered his truck, but we took my van, because you never know when you’re gonna get called to a crime scene, and because it has GPS. Kirsten’s neighborhood is beautiful, if you go for that charming fifties suburbia thing. The lawns are manicured, children run from house to house with a secure sense of joint ownership, and cute medium-sized dogs bark playfully from behind honest-to-goodness white picket fences. We drove with the windows down, and I could hear a sharp metallic crack coming from the community ballpark on the next street. It’s all very Kirsten, who makes Elizabeth Montgomery look like an evil hag.

When Eli and I arrived, I didn’t have to do ding-dong-ditch. (There’s a Wizard of Oz joke in there somewhere.) I only inhibit Kirsten when she’s actively opened her connection to magic, so if she’s not using it, being near me won’t bother her. Although, for whatever reason, I can still feel an inactive witch in my radius, like a soft white noise that’s always buzzing.

Kirsten opened the door still in her spotless Nike running clothes, her white-blonde hair pulled into a bun. “Hello, Scarlett. It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Glendon. I believe we met at one of the Trials two years ago, but of course, it’s been so long.”

She held out her hand, and Eli took it, glancing uncertainly at me. I smiled sweetly. Oh, this was going to be fun.

“Please come in, of course.” She led us through a Pottery Barn living room and into her spacious kitchen, which was probably the only place in the house that gave away Kirsten’s secret identity. Pots of every size and metal hung from a rack on the ceiling, more pots than any TV chef could dream of, and there was an enormous open pantry, a dozen feet high, that was devoted to herbs, preserved in identical spotless Tupperware jars with printed labels. I was tempted to look for the Big Three, but if Kirsten did have any, she wouldn’t put them right out in the open.

She did have not one, but two different stone mortar-and-pestle sets on the large granite counter, and there was a small bookshelf above the sink that was crammed with books that had no titles. “Paul, my husband, is playing golf this morning, which leaves the house open for us. May I see the object, please?”

Eli glanced at me and, at my nod, handed over the insulated lunch bag where he’d stashed the cuffs. Given his “allergy,” I’d offered to carry them, but he’d insisted on doing it himself. Probably thought I’d ditch him and go see Kirsten alone.

Probably right.

Kirsten peeked inside and bit her lip thoughtfully. “I see what you mean, Scarlett. I’ve certainly never seen anything like this, although you know we don’t have much contact with the wolves.” She smiled diplomatically at Eli, who looked as if he’d just taken a bite of a completely new and spicy food. I probably should have told him more about Kirsten, but come on, this was entertaining.

“Can you trace them?” I asked her. “Do you have a spell that will work?”

“I think so.” Her eyes drifted to the books above the sink. “It won’t go to the last owner, unfortunately, because Eli has had them for too long. But I can get you to their maker. It should take no more than a half hour, I believe, and of course, I’ll have to ask you to step outside. Will your friend be staying in here or joining you outside?”