I turned on a heel, eyeing what Ivy had rented for us: a one-story house that could easily be converted to an office. The roof looked new, but the chimney mortar was crumbling. There was grass out front, looking like it should have been cut last week. It even had a garage, the door gaping open to show a rusting mower.

It will do, I thought as I opened the gate to the chain-link fence enclosing the yard. An old black man sat on the porch, rocking the afternoon away. Landlord? I mused, smiling. I wondered if he was a vamp, since he wore dark glasses against the late afternoon sun. He was scruffy looking despite being clean-shaven, his tightly curled hair going gray around the temples. There was mud on his shoes and a hint of it on the knees of his blue jeans. He looked worn-out and tired—put away like an unwanted plow horse who was still eager for one more season.

He set a tall glass on the porch railing as I came up the walk. “Don’t want it,” he said as he took off his glasses and tucked them in a shirt pocket. His voice was raspy.

Hesitating, I peered up at him from the bottom of the stairs. “Beg pardon?”

He coughed, clearing his throat. “Whatever you’re selling out of that box. Don’t want it. I’ve got enough curse candles, candy, and magazines. And I don’t have the money for new siding, water purifier, or a sunroom.”

“I’m not selling anything,” I said. “I’m your new tenant.”

He sat up straighter, somehow making himself look even more unkempt. “Tenant? Oh, you mean across the street.”

Confused, I shifted my box to my other hip. “This isn’t 1597 Oakstaff, is it?”

He chuckled. “That’s across the street.”

“Sorry to have bothered you.” I turned to leave, hoisting the box higher.

“Yep,” the man said, and I paused, not wanting to be rude. “The numbers are backward on this street. Odd numbers on the wrong side of the road.” He smiled, creasing the wrinkles around his eyes. “But they didn’t ask me when they put the numbers up.” He extended his hand. “I’m Keasley,” he said, waiting for me to climb the stairs and take his hand.

Neighbors, I thought, rolling my eyes as I went up the stairs. Best to be nice. “Rachel Morgan,” I said, pumping his arm once. He beamed, patting my shoulder in a fatherly fashion. The strength of his grip was surprising, as was the scent of redwood coming from him. He was a witch, or at the very least a warlock. Not comfortable with his show of familiarity, I took a step back as he released me. It was cooler on his porch, and I felt tall under the low ceiling.

“Are you friends with the vamp?” he said, gesturing across the street with his chin.

“Ivy? Yeah.”

He nodded slowly, as if it were important. “Both of you quit together?”