My vision swam as I bent over to pick up his hammer. What if they weren’t able to bring back Brock’s spirit? Would he truly be dead? It seemed impossible. I wasn’t sure how old Brock was, but I knew he’d come to Fairwick in the mid-nineteenth century. He’d been sweet on the romance novelist Dahlia LaMotte when she’d lived in Honeysuckle House in the first half of the twentieth century, but Dahlia’s obsession with the incubus had kept them apart. I’d seen him once or twice out with Dory Browne, the realtor who’d sold me Honeysuckle House, but didn’t know if they were dating. Maybe I should call Dory, but then I didn’t know what the protocol might be for inter-species dating. Dory was a Welsh brownie and Brock was a Norse demi-god. I knew that some of the groups in the Fairwick community were clannish and didn’t mix well with others – succubi weren’t supposed to date witches, Soheila had told me, and I’d learned recently that gnomes had an age-old feud with satyrs. Vampires pretty much kept to themselves. It was a lot for a newcomer to follow and I didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes. I’d learned last fall that I was surrounded by supernatural creatures, but I still knew little about them – or about my own powers. I hadn’t even known that I wasn’t supposed to use a spell in Faerie. The fact was, I kept blundering into situations I knew nothing about and making things worse. That was why Liz and Diana had exchanged that look before when I asked if I would be able to keep the door open. They weren’t sure I would be able to.

I circled the house and collected a handful of nails, Brock’s hammer, and the iPod I’d given him for his birthday last month. The iPod was still playing. I tucked one of the buds into my ear expecting … I don’t know … Viking sea shanties? But instead I heard the reedy voice of Bjork rasping out her rendition of “Pagan Poetry.” It sort of made sense, I thought, my eyes filling with tears. I tucked the iPod in my jeans pocket, thinking I’d give it to Ike.

When I came around the house I saw that Ike and others had arrived along with a woman with long ash-blonde hair. She knelt beside Brock, the skirt of her long green dress spread out on the grass. Her hair was draped around her face, and she held her hand to Brock’s chest. Ike, flanked by two men who looked like they could have been Ike and Brock’s cousins, stood holding an umbrella over her. Liz, Diana and Soheila gathered on the other side. The scene looked like a pre-Raphaelite painting depicting an episode out of the Norse eddas – “Death of a Viking,” or “A Hero’s Journey to Valhalla.” All it needed was a ship and a funeral pyre.

As I approached the group, the blonde woman lifted her head and shook her long hair back from her face, revealing strikingly beautiful features. At the sight of her I heard bells and felt slightly woozy, invariably my reaction when in the presence of Fiona Eldritch, the Fairy Queen.