“We sent an email out this morning specifying that no demons would be allowed in the meeting, unless specifically called for. We can’t have them influencing the proceedings.”

“And yet the proceedings will decide our fate,” a gruff voice called out from the circle of onlookers. Recognizing it, I got up from Soheila’s side and eagerly peered through the crowd as it parted to let one large, flannel-shirted man through.

“Brock!” I cried, so glad to see him up and looking well I threw my arms around him. A red welt appeared on his face, always a sign he was embarrassed. I unwound my arms from around him and stepped back. Brock gave me a wistful smile, but when he raised his head to look at the fair-haired guard, an ugly red stain spread across his face and his brows knitted together. “My family has lived in Fairwick for over a hundred years. You can’t force us to leave.”

“No one is being forced to do anything.”

The soft, but precise voice came from behind the blond man. I saw the smooth silver chignon first and then smelled Chanel Number Five, a scent that always sent a chill down my spine.

“Adelaide,” I said, greeting my grandmother by her first name, mostly because I knew it would annoy her. “Why can’t Brock and Soheila attend the meeting? Brock’s family has watched over the woods and protected Fairwick for over a century. Soheila teaches here. It’s hardly fair to exclude them from a meeting deciding their fate.”

“We’ve provided a video simulcast,” Adelaide said, pointing to two flat screen TVs mounted on the lobby walls. “You are all welcome to stay out here and listen. But we can’t have any demons that are capable of magically influencing the proceedings inside. It’s a simple precaution.”

“Brock’s not a demon!” I said. “He’s a Norse divinity! And Dory!” I cried, pointing at my friend, who was wearing a floral skirt, a yellow sweater set, yellow espadrilles, and carrying a quilted handbag. “She’s a brownie. What could be more harmless than a brownie?”

Adelaide gave Dory a withering look. “Brownies are one step away from boggarts. Do you know why brownies don’t like to be thanked?” Adelaide asked.

This was something I’d always wondered about. Dory and her cousin brownies were always doing good deeds, but they hated being thanked for them. “I assume it’s because they’re very modest,” I answered.

Adelaide laughed. “Shall I tell her?” she asked Dory whose pink cheeks had gone pale.

“No, let me,” Dory said, turning to me. “Many, many years ago a brownie did a favor for a human being, but the human being didn’t thank him. The brownie got so angry that he … well, he killed him.”

“And ate him,” Adelaide added.