I was greeted at the door by a plump woman with white hair pulled back into a bun and a red and green apron straining across her round belly. I introduced myself but in response she only smiled and, taking me by the hand, led me into the living room.

“Amma doesn’t speak English,” Liz Book said, patting an empty chair next to her. It was the only empty seat out of a dozen red ladder chairs arranged in a circle around a coffee table heaped with blue and white mugs and plates, nut-studded strudel, plates of cookies, heaps of Danishes, and assorted pastries. The scene would have resembled a suburban coffee klatch if not for Brock’s supine form on the couch.

I took a seat and looked around the circle. Diana and Soheila smiled at me. I also recognized Joan Ryan from Fairwick’s Chemistry Department and Dory Browne, realtor and brownie. Her chin-length blonde hair was held back by a pink gingham headband that matched her skirt. She always reminded me of those cheery Mary Engelbreit illustrations. Next to me sat an older white-haired woman who looked familiar.

“I’m Ann Chase,” she said in a friendly voice, but not offering to shake my hand. “We met at the Children’s House fundraiser last month. We appreciated your generous donation.”

“Oh yes,” I said, remembering her now. Children’s House was a home for severely disabled children. Ann Chase, who had run it for many years, had a reputation in town akin to sainthood. Glancing down at her hands I also recalled that she had severe arthritis, which was why she hadn’t offered to shake my hand. If she was a witch couldn’t she have cured her arthritis? Or perhaps she was another kind of creature. I looked around those in the circle wondering which camp each one fell into. The large woman wearing a t-shirt that said “Never Piss off a Witch” was probably a witch – and probably the owner of the VW. But I couldn’t begin to guess about a lean man with a prominent, beak-shaped nose, wearing a Levon Helm t-shirt and cowboy boots, or the pretty young woman in khakis and white blouse or the young man with a goatee, Ray-Bans and undersized porkpie hat.

The three women sitting closest to Brock, though, were almost certainly supernatural. A faint white mist was flowing out of their mouths, rising into the air and forming a wreath around Brock. Cold seemed to be emanating from this mist.

“Norns,” Liz whispered in my ear.

“Aren’t the Norns the Norse equivalent of the Fates?” I asked.

“Yes, usually they’re called in at childbirth to assure a child’s good future. The older woman on the left is Urd.” I took a surreptitious glance at the woman sitting near Brock’s head. She looked much like Amma, plump with a round, pink face and white hair and a pile of thick wool in her lap. She looked a sweet grandmotherly type, only she wore a sickle-shaped silver blade on a chain at her waist, which didn’t look even remotely grandmotherly. Nor did the pointed knitting needles in her lap look benign. They were sharp as skewers. “Urd controls the past. Her sister, Verdandi, looks after the present.” Verdandi was a smart-looking blonde woman in a tailored suit and pantyhose. She was working on a piece of needlepoint, stabbing a sharp needle into the cloth as if she were angry with it. She too wore a sickle-shaped blade on a long chain from which also hung a pair of reading glasses. “And then there’s Skald.” The third of the trio was a young woman with dyed black hair teased into a threatening-looking Mohawk, brow, nose, and lip piercings, and a tattoo of Thor’s hammer on her muscular bicep. She was dressed in tight leather jeans and a sleeveless white t-shirt. No knitting or needlework for Skald. She was texting on a shiny silver phone. “Skald is our future. May the gods help us.”