Kindling the Moon by Jenn Bennett Page A

flip-flop, and used it to beat the fire down. It took several slaps to extinguish. Putrid-smelling smoke trailed up into the air from the blackened hole in the middle of the cloth. Smoked pig’s blood. Disgusting.
    As I slid back on my soot-smeared shoe, Mrs. Marsh appeared with Tiddlywinks in tow.
    â€œGuess you’ll have to make another circle, sweetie,” she said as we both looked down at the smoking cloth. “But at least I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”
    And at least I wasn’t wasting my magical talent on supernatural pest control. Oh, wait—I was. I found my caduceus in the grass and stalked off toward my house, one charred corner of the barbecued canvas dangling between the tips of my fingers.

6
    Exhaustion set in as I locked my side door. On the way upstairs to my bedroom, I gathered up my pet, Mr. Piggy, a rescued hedgehog. Not much bigger than my hand, Mr. Piggy is a cute thing with a petite pink nose and dark, beady eyes. I scratched him on the underside of his little pointy chin and he yawned. At times he can be downright grumpy, but as far as roommates go, he’s a pretty good one.
    Sleep. That was what I needed. Once I got to my bedroom, I maneuvered my bra from underneath my shirt, dropped it on the floor, and ditched my jeans before crawling under the bedcovers. The small, sagging mattress felt like heaven. Mr. Piggy huffed and puffed as he climbed the set of pet stairs that I kept at the foot of the bed; he waddled across the covers and stopped when he found an acceptable spot to settle near my feet. Then he turned three slow circles before finally plopping down.
    My hair stunk of smoky pig’s blood, but I didn’t have the strength to care. At that moment I just needed rest; I figured I’d wash off the funk when I woke up.
    I drowsily made plans for the next day. First I’d contact Father Carrow and ask him to put some pressure on Lon forme. Then maybe I’d call Kar Yee to arrange for a part-time bartender to take a couple of my shifts. My thoughts roamed and faded. Just when I was at the cusp of succumbing to the heavy pull of sleep, a loud knock sounded from downstairs.
    â€œAre you fucking kidding me?” No way on God’s green earth was I getting out of bed to run after another damned imp for that woman. All my charity and goodwill were gone. If I didn’t answer the door, maybe she’d go away. I waited and heard nothing, then settled back into my pillow while Mr. Piggy grumbled his own protests.
    Not for long.
    Another knock came, this one louder and more insistent. Furious, I threw back the covers and stomped downstairs. I really didn’t think I could be nice this time. I made my way down the side hall, turned the lock, and flung the door open with nothing short of malice.
    â€œMrs. Marsh—” I hissed.
    It was not Mrs. Marsh standing in my doorway. It was Lon Butler.
    â€œExpecting someone else?” he asked with an amused look on his face.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing here? How did you—”
    â€œI’ve just been over at Father Carrow’s house down the block and …” He hesitated as his eyes skimmed over me. I followed his gaze and peered down at myself. Nothing but my T-shirt and panties. A blowtorch warmth spread up my neck, over my cheeks. “Father Carrow,” he repeated, still not looking at my face, “pointed out which house was yours, so I drove over.”
    I stealthily attempted to tug down the hem of my T-shirt, but it barely covered my waist.
    â€œLooks like you’ve stuck your finger in a light socket,” heobserved, tearing his eyes away from my hips to stare at my hair. Damn Mrs. Marsh and that imp. And damn myself for kindling raw electricity without a caduceus.
    â€œWell?” I prompted.
    â€œYou gonna invite me in, or you wanna talk out here?”
    I moved from the doorway and gestured for him to come inside. Ten o’clock on a Friday night,