Halfway Dead by Terry Maggert

public library. Nothing escapes the penetrating gaze of that institution. Think of them as a sort of council on everything that happens from Raquette Lake to Utica. Plus, they’ve known me since I was a bump in my mom’s belly. They won’t steer me wrong. Now, you were going to spill whatever proprietary information your company has about this potential grove of chestnuts?” I leaned back to give him my most serious gaze. I was going to go on this little jaunt as long as he wasn’t currently wanted for mass murder, and even then it was possible. I can handle myself. Some guy with new hiking boots and a great smile wasn’t going to scare me one bit.
    He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know if it’s much help, but we got reference to a place that was a complete dead end. Just a name, maybe, but it sounds to me more like a place.”
    “Which is?” I invited.
    “Thendara.” And I felt my stomach drop as I pasted a smile on my face, keeping everything I knew under that stupid grin.

Chapter Four: Ghost of a Chance

     
     
    I’d practically tripped myself escaping Major’s presence in order to get to my Gran’s house.
    We needed to talk.
    When I first came aboard the family business, I spent an entire summer walking beside my Gran, listening to her weave stories of our long family history. It wasn’t as dramatic as one might think, given that we’d been witches as far back as the time of Brian Boru. He was a high king who unified Ireland nearly 1000 years ago, and apparently an all-around badass considering he was killed in combat at the age of eighty-five. In fact, we seemed to be the quietest practitioners of witchcraft in all of history. We behaved. We paid our taxes. I don’t recall one single instance of my family being at the head or tail end of some uprising, unless you count a minor affair in France over the outrageous cost of pastries. To be fair, exorbitant cake prices would probably raise my hackles, too, but given that this was a one-time event in the late 1800s, I think it’s safe to say we avoid drama.
    Except for one incident.
    Thendara no longer exists. It was never truly anything more than a name, and at that, it was the source of a grim mystery in my family that went back to the year 1839. I was breathless when Gran let me in. One look and she led me to her kitchen table while pouring boiling water into two mugs. Tea first, troubles second. It was her way of letting me gather my thoughts. It worked. When she wordlessly handed me my cup, she raised one white brow in question. That was enough for me.
    “Thendara.” That was all I said, and her mobile face didn’t even twitch.
    She leaned forward, elbows on the table. Her hands were aged, but still strong, with long fingers that she wrapped around the mug. The aromatic steam hinted at something that was intended to create calm.
    “Hey! You had the water on when I got here . . .” I pointed at Gran accusatorily. “How did you know?”
    “You’re my own flesh and blood. And I’m a witch. A damned good witch, child, and I know everything that happens to you.” She sipped her tea, then grinned. “Three different people called me to say you were sitting with a man, gazing at the lake. The conversation seems to have ended with you looking rather stricken.”
    “That’s exactly right.” I leaned back and looked at the ceiling. The whorled plaster was broken by square beams, and I thought I could see some kind of story there. It was tantalizing, and I fought not to get lost in the myriad of cracks.
    “Who is this man?” Gran asked firmly.
    “He wants me to find something. To help him find something, actually. His name is Major Pickford, and his family owns some giant company that makes all kinds of things,” I said.
    “What kinds of things?” Gran was curious. It was the mark of a great witch. She was never content with the information at hand.
    “Well, food stuff. Furniture. A variety of products, but none of that seems to matter.