Excerpt from "Beltane"

Two weeks after Allie’s wedding, Zen rolled out of bed at ten. She was never a morning person. At noon, she wandered down to the sandwich shop, next to Light and Shadow. She ordered her usual turkey club. Zen took her sandwich to the business of her neighbor on the other side, Selma Weiland. Selma owned the nail salon. Zen found Selma at work on her biggest client.

Corey Werwinski was the nail salon’s biggest client, literally and figuratively. He was six and a half feet tall and weighed at least two-hundred and forty pounds. In his day job, insurance salesman, Corey had little use for regular fingernail maintenance. By night, however, Corey donned the wigs, stockings and gowns of a professional female impersonator.

“Selma,” Corey was saying, “you’re the only gal in town who can do a set of false tips, really glue them on so you could use ‘em in self defense if you had to, ain't them to match my evening attire, and then take them off the next day without tearing up the real nails underneath.”

“Aw, thanks, Corey,” Selma blushed.

“Selma, do you have time to do me when you’re done with Corey?” Zen asked, sitting down in the waiting area with her sandwich and picking up a copy of Cosmo.

Selma looked up at the clock. “Sure,” she said.

Corey made a face. “Not black this time, okay, Zen?”

Zen looked at her fingernails. The black paint was chipped, and two of her acrylic tips were missing. “I just need a touch-up,” she said. “I’m not going through a whole remove-and-redo this afternoon. I need to get over to my shop, eventually.”

Corey rolled his eyes. “Zen, nobody over the age of twelve walks around with black fingernails. I don’t care if you are a professional witch. It’s not cute, and it’s definitely not sexy.”

“What’s not sexy?” Gillian asked. Zen’s assistant knew where to look when Zen wasn’t at Light and Shadow or at the sandwich place.

Corey frowned. “We were discussing Zen’s nails,” he said. “Gillian, you’re the Gothest Wiccan chick I know, and even you have better sense than to wear black nails. Don’t you think black nails are so junior high?”

Zen barely looked up from her Cosmo quiz. “I like them, and I’m keeping them. You like my nails, don’t you, Gillian?”

“I’m not getting in the middle of this,” Gillian said. “They’re her nails, Core. Her body, her choice.”

“The nails stay black, and that’s that,” Zen said. She took another bite of her turkey sandwich.

Selma inspected Corey’s freshly-manicured nails closely. “Zen, I bet your nails are beat to hell, aren’t they? I haven’t done them since before your sister’s wedding. And that was, what, a month ago?”

Corey pulled his hand back from Selma. He looked approvingly at his manicure.

“And by the way, you never told us about the wedding. Was it totally romantic? Did you hook up?”

“Oh, she hooked up, all right,” Gillian said. “Tell ‘em, Zen.”

“I’m eating a sandwich,” Zen said, wiping a stray sprout from her lip. “Can’t talk. Come by the shop and ask me later.”

Selma rolled her eyes. “You know I can’t,” she said. “As soon as I close the nail salon, I have to be home to keep an eye on Ronnie and Mel. Too much trouble for teenagers to get into these days, if you leave them unsupervised.”

“So talk,” Corey said.

Looming over her in his business suit, he reminded Zen of a CIA agent. She felt like she was keeping secrets about the North Korean missile program. She almost forgot this was the same man who walked around in a sequin dress, pumps and blonde wig and introduced himself as, “Blonde, James Blonde.”

Zen put the sandwich down and took a short sip of coffee. “Okay,” she said. “First off, before the wedding even began, my foster mom Kameko told Allie that she should be marrying one of my rejects.”

“Run that by me again?” Corey said. “Your mom doesn’t like Allie’s husband?”

“She likes him fine,” Zen said. “It was just her intuition, a feeling she had. And then Allie had me do a reading on Paul Phillip. He was all happy and excited and in love and everything, but he was hiding something from me. I couldn’t figure it out.”

“It probably doesn’t mean anything,” Corey said. “Get to the part where you met Mr. Hottie.”

“Mr. Hottie was the caterer. His name was Chris, and he used to be a cook in the Navy. So fine. Big, tall, blond and tattooed.”