Chapter Text
He moves in during a February snowstorm, in the middle of the night. The U-Haul's headlights beam through her living room window downstairs, and the sheer curtains do nothing to block it. With a groan, Rey flips over and pulls the duvet over her head to muffle the idling engine. She hates him already.
The next morning, she re-does her wards.
For weeks, there's nothing, and Rey starts to wonder if she imagined the whole thing. No TV winking on, no cars in the driveway. No doors banging or dogs barking. Curtains closed tight.
Then, one Friday, a meeting at work runs late, and she gets home at dusk. Sitting in her car, she watches the end of a large rectangular box being dragged through his front door. It disappears into darkness and the door slams shut, rattling the ornate brass knocker like it's a punctuation mark.
Resisting the urge to keep glancing over her shoulder, Rey opens her garage and grabs the bin of birdseed. Waking up to chirping makes even the darkest winter morning tolerable, and food is scarce for them this time of year. Sterile suburban yards, dotted with nothing but spherical boxwoods and weeping cherry trees, make her even more proud of her own wild oasis. The neighbors whisper, of course, about her disorderly hedges and the animals that scamper through her yard, but some new morsel of gossip always steals their attention soon enough, leaving Rey in peace.
As she refills the feeder, something flicks in one of his windows: the blinds, parted just enough for him to peek through.
In the fading light, Rey gives a sarcastic wave.
It's a full moon, and her turn to host.
Poe is curled up in the slouchy armchair tucked into her reading corner. The arced floor lamp is like a spotlight on him, and the wine in his glass glints as he points to the wall beside him, closest to the neighbor's house.
“Rey, I really think you should be doing more. It's not going to go away on its own.”
They're waiting for moonrise. When they gather at her place, everyone knows what to expect: cheap wine, heaping platters of appetizers, too many candles, and a lot of conversation about the guy next door.
“He's allowed to live there,” Rey says, picking at the fringe of the throw draped over her lap. “And he keeps to himself. I've never even seen him.”
Just his name, on mail accidentally delivered to her house. Benjamin O. Solo. Like a heavy-handed porn name. Once, a few cars had parked at his place for two days. Loud music coming from the basement and some muffled laughter were the only indications that anything was different. When they left, everything went back to normal.
“I wonder how old he is.” Rose balances on a floor pillow Rey made from an intricate, threadbare antique carpet, and pops another onion ring into her mouth.
“Old enough to know to stay away from a witch,” Kaydel says pointedly, thumbing through a book without glancing up.
Jannah is working through a stack of seed catalogs, jewelry clinking as she takes the next one. “He's waiting.”
She has a horrible knack for saying simple, unsettling things that burrow into Rey's mind, resurface at three in the morning, and are almost always true. Not for the first time, Rey wonders if she sees more than she lets on, and hopes she's wrong about this.
“Poe's right,” Finn says. “We should do a banishing. Rey, you know how they can get. When's he even feeding, anyway?”
Finn is stretched out next to her on the sofa, his socked feet tucked under her leg to stay warm. Rey takes a thoughtful sip of wine. It lost its sharp edge after the initial half-glass, and all that's left is the way it makes her shoulders melt.
Of course she knows how they can get. She might know better than anyone.
“He must go out late,” she says. She hates thinking about this part. The logistics. “I'm not going onto someone else's property to cast a banishment unless they're paying me. And if he ever bothers me, you'll all be the first ones to know.”
In her pocket, her phone buzzes.
“Almost time.” Rey silences the alarm and stands. She piles the blanket over Finn's feet to make up for the loss. “I'll come get you when everything's ready.”
There's just enough room on the coffee table for her wine, between the cluster of pillar candles and a bowl of olives.
“Go get some more brie while you're out there,” Poe says, tipping his wineglass at the empty, jam-smeared plate.
“I'm cutting you off.” She indicates the Bagel Bites. “Stuff those in your mouth.”
“They taste like cardboard and ketchup.” He tries to push Rose's hand away, but he's laughing too hard to resist when she taps one on his bottom lip.
Rey's backyard is full of winding gravel paths and hidden nooks, a trickling pond, and a twisted oak tree. A patio and a fire pit. There are practicalities, too: a shed packed with teetering stacks of upturned pots, the pegboard covered in tools; a compost pile that steams on cool days. The small greenhouse where she starts seeds and overwinters delicate things.
The moon peeks out over the eaves as she builds a fire. A bowl of salt sits on the patio nearby and a circle of chairs rings the fire pit. They don't need much to do a lot, but they'll bring more stuff to arrange carefully in the moonlight.
With a flick of her fingers, the tinder sparks into a tiny flame that grows. The kindling catches with a pop and a crackle.
He's a dark silhouette on his back deck, leaning on the railing, all broad shoulders and a glass of something in his hand. Just watching her. He gives a little wave.
Rey keeps her breathing slow, in case he can hear it, and tries not to let fear jump up into her throat. She doesn't wave back and he straightens and—fuck, he's so tall—goes inside, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
And she can't shake the feeling that he might actually be hot.
For a vampire.
Summer isn't her favorite, but it's close.
Long weekend days spent in the garden, trimming and watering. She scatters her house with bouquets of wildflowers and herbs, the kitchen scented with hanging bundles of vervain and lemon balm. Mugwort and henbane and belladonna dry on screens in the office upstairs.
Rey takes a break in the late afternoon. Unfolds a lightweight aluminum-framed lounge chair. The orange and white webbing will leave marks on the backs of her legs, but they'll fade faster than the tan lines she'll get on her arms and neck if she doesn't do this. She wipes the sunscreen off of her palms with a towel and unclips the straps of her bathing suit top, folding them out of the way. And she's settling in with a watermelon rosemary popsicle and a book when she sees movement.
His kitchen window. Behind her sunglasses, she squints.
He's standing there and now she's sure of it—he is undeniably, alarmingly fuckable. Dark hair, dark eyes. Dark, parted lips. Even through the tint of her sunglasses, she knows the drips are crimson. Knows that he's dragging his fingers through it and wiping it off of his chin with the back of his hand. Her stomach churns but she can't look away, even when his arm lowers, slowly, and his hand is out of view and he's definitely pushing into it as he watches her.
Drops from the popsicle, icy and sweet, land on her thumb. She hurries to lick them off before they slide onto her book, and when she glances back at the window, he's gone.
That night, she does a protection ritual, her clawfoot tub filled with rue and salt and lemon peels, the water easing the ache of yardwork.
She also gets off harder than she has in months, and she tells herself it's a coincidence.
It's the kind of fall day that makes Rey wish it lasted all year. Sunshine warms the fluffy soil of her garden, rich with loam and dotted with the first vibrant red maple leaves to flutter from the trees.
She's been battling a tenacious patch of English ivy along the fence line. It's strangling her perennials, crawling along the ground to wrap around berry bushes and tree trunks. She brought the rake and a shovel to lift the knotted web of roots, and she's rotating between the two tools and her gloved hands.
The tip of her shovel blade clanks against a rock. Or at least she thinks it's a rock. It could be a bottle she buried the previous summer—a spell for a client. She turns to switch to the rake so she won't disturb it.
“Hi.”
She nearly jumps out of her skin. He's so close—just on the other side of the low white fence, wearing a black t-shirt. One hand's in his pocket, the other combing through his perfect hair. In the middle of the day.
There are ways, she knows. Things they can wear or eat. She takes it in stride.
“Hello,” she says.
An SUV rolls by, the back adorned with bumper stickers about honors students and lacrosse. The wheels shatter fallen acorns. Purple spikes of monkshood sway in the breeze, brushing over the fence.
He reaches out, skin bare.
“Don't touch those.”
He stops.
“Wolfsbane,” he says. “Aconitum. Devil's helmet.”
Rey nods, mouth dry. Historically, it was worn around the neck to protect against vampires: an unfounded superstition. Obviously. His hands are huge and his fingers gently stroke the rounded blooms. This time, she doesn't stop him. He knows what it is.
“A witch with a garden full of poison.” His voice is soft and deep, so only she can hear. So her secrets are safe.
“Well, I guess if you're already dead...”
He grins. It lights his whole face and it's so disarming that, as he rubs his fingertips carefully over petals like they can feel it, she could almost forget that he's a monster.
She gets the shovel again, her gloves creaking against the wooden handle.
“When did that happen, anyway?” She goes back to digging, avoiding the bottle.
His smile doesn't fall completely, but it leaves his eyes as he lets the monkshood go.
“That's a very personal question. Especially for a stranger.”
She thinks of him, standing on his deck as she ignited a fire. At the window while she read a book in the July sun.
“Neighbors,” she corrects, gesturing to the space between their houses.
The ratty, bleached shirt she's wearing is full of holes along the collar where her washing machine chewed it up. She skipped a bra and maybe it's more obvious than she thought as she digs, chopping up robust roots with the sharpened blade.
“I found your website,” he says.
“Okay.”
Creepy. But probably not difficult to do once he figured out her name.
“I lost something.” His gaze is intense when she looks up and she can't figure out why until, after far too long, he finally blinks and she almost jolts. “I need it back.”
Rey stomps on the shovel, driving it easily into the ground, and dusts the dirt off of her jeans. It's a common request, and on her site's menu of services. In-person, if they're local, or remote.
“Well, then I hope you find it.” She lifts her chin defiantly, daring him to order her around.
And there, for a split second, is the urge. His fingers twitch like he wants to grab her, like he can't even remember how to interact with a human who won't do what he says.
“I'll pay you,” he says.
“How much?”
“Way too much.”
She likes the sound of that.
“That's not a number.”
His eyes flick over to her house. Well maintained. Good location. Unruly garden. Then to her car: five years old, a scuff on the fender.
“Fifty thousand.”
Rey chokes on her tongue. “Dollars?”
“No, denarii.”
She scowls at the sarcasm, trying not to seem too eager. For a simple finding spell, it's utterly outrageous. As for the danger, she can take care of herself.
“I'll need 25% up front, to reserve a time slot and begin preparations. Very busy time of year. I'm sure you can imagine.”
There. That should deter him.
Instead, he nods once like any of this is reasonable and takes a step closer, his shoe almost touching the fence. He leans in, and maybe she's imagining it but it seems like he stares at her lips for a heartbeat before he meets her eyes.
“How do you like it?”
She's going to pass out. Did she touch the monkshood? Maybe its roots brushed her wrist, just above the cuff of a glove. The clouds are spinning.
“What?”
He pulls out his wallet. “Cash? Check?”
It's hard not to notice the thick wad of bills. Rey takes a stumbling step backwards and holds up a hand.
“Fuck, not here. The neighbors already think I'm weird.”
“Ah.” He snaps his wallet shut and slides it into his back pocket. “Good point. But everyone knows Madison's the dealer.”
“Wait.” Rey points to the sprawling brick house on the corner. “Maddie Maddie? Madison with the Labradoodles?”
She already hates how she sounds when she gossips in her side yard. But he nods solemnly.
“Yeah, Rey. Labradoodle Maddie. Those parties aren't all Pampered Chef.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “You're full of shit.”
“Am not.”
“You are.” The bucket of ripped-up ivy is overflowing and the handle squeaks when she grabs it. “And until I get that money, I'm going to pretend we never had this conversation.”
“Tonight,” he says. “I'll just slip it under your back door, if that's alright with you.”
Her jaw drops.
“Front door?”
She's still gaping at him, heat rising in her cheeks.
“Or...”
“Stop!” she says sharply. “Just... stop. Whatever you're doing, knock it off.”
He's quiet, studying her like she's a new species.
“You can't come onto my property,” she says.
Physically, he can't. Over the months, she's built up so many barriers that it would be like walking into a wall of concrete. It's a habit as she falls asleep: making layers upon layers of them, sometimes tainted by curiosity or attraction, but always walls. But it really sounds like she's forbidding him. And maybe she is.
Something in his expression closes off, shadowed again.
“It'll be on my front porch,” he says tightly. “Under the mat. I appreciate your help.”
And he turns and goes inside.
The next morning is foggy and cool.
Rey doesn't bother with a coat; just jams her feet into her wellies and takes her cup of coffee with her when she steps outside, unable to wait any longer. She laid in bed for hours last night, fingers interlocked so she wouldn't idly feather touches over herself while she remembered the size of his hands and how effortlessly he could have crushed the flowers but only stroked them as he talked to her. The dreams that followed were ominous.
It might all be a trap, of course. To get her close enough to pull her inside for a feed. But, on the sidewalk in front of his house, she squares her shoulders and marches up the flagstone path to the front porch. He would have his work cut out for him if he tried something like that and he knows it.
The steps are solid, and her boots are too loud for her to be stealthy so she doesn't bother, instead letting it be a challenge. The porch is wide and wraps around, intended for long conversations and comfy wicker chairs. It's empty except for a few windblown leaves and the doormat.
The doormat with the bump along the edge.
She flips it back with her toe. The envelope is thick, off-white paper with her name written in the exact middle. It looks like a wedding invitation. Except when she peeks inside, instead of an RSVP card, sheets of vellum and a saccharine poem, there's an inch of hundred-dollar bills, neatly wrapped in a paper sleeve.
She won't count it here. Careful not to spill her coffee, she shakily crams the envelope into her waistband, covers it with her oversized sweatshirt, and walks back to her house like she's done it dozens of times.
It's only when the deadbolt is latched behind her that she takes it out. A small piece of paper flits to the floor.
Thank you.
—Ben
The handwriting makes it look like the fucking Declaration of Independence, and the fact that there's now twelve-and-a-half thousand dollars on her kitchen table makes him thanking her feel almost insulting.
Upstairs, she numbly enters it into her accounting software. The shelves lining the office might be crammed haphazardly with books and amber jars of dried herbs, but at least her computer is always organized.
With a few clicks, she finds the inquiry email he sent in the middle of the night. It's polite but guarded, with his availability but nothing else about what he lost, and Rey lets the automated system spit back a confirmation of payment to him, along with instructions meant to soothe the people who come to her in a panic or as a last resort. It's assurances that she offers a money-back guarantee and will contact them soon for more information. Legal disclaimers, encouragement to ensure their personal safety if the situation calls for it, and links to resources. And her number, for emergencies.
She's never had someone ask for their money back. She has had emergencies.
Usually, clients hear about her from a friend, or a friend of a friend, but she's been getting more traffic from social media lately—people with bigger problems that are farther away and take more concentration. Sometimes she has to travel. What started as a side thing has grown to become her main source of income. Her part-time office job satisfies the suspicious, who would otherwise raise their eyebrows at the young woman who moved into the spooky old guy's house after he died. No listing, no For Sale sign in the yard. Just a stranger who apparently never works and had no idea she was anybody's next of kin until she got the letter from his lawyers.
They think that sometimes wearing a blazer means she's normal, like she hadn't spent weeks cleaning the pollution of her unknown grandfather from the walls and rinsing it down the drain until the house was only hers. But they don't know any of that.
Her phone rings. She recognizes the number from his email.
“I said I'll contact you,” Rey says, by way of greeting.
“I know.”
“This is for emergencies.” She spins in her padded leather desk chair, irritated. But his voice... “Do you have an emergency, Mr. Solo?”
“Yeah. Look out your window.”
She can hear his grin, and she heaves a sigh. After rolling over to the bay window, she snaps the curtain back.
He's in an upstairs bedroom that's blazing with light, wrapped in a blanket. He waves.
“I can't sleep,” he says.
Rey rolls her eyes and lets the curtain fall. But she doesn't close it completely.
“Try turning off the lights and counting all the people you've killed.”
“Did that already.”
She presses her lips together against a smile until she can collect herself.
“This is really unprofessional,” she says. “I'm going to have to re-evaluate the nature of our client-contractor relationship.”
“I wish you would.”
It catches her off guard, and the laugh comes too fast to stop. Rey pulls a sealed jar of mandrake root from the shelf and gives it a shake. The curled corner of the paper label needs to be re-glued. She flicks her nail over it.
“Emergencies are like... if something bodily throws you out of your house and you can't get back in to feed the cats. Or someone hexed you and your entire life is falling apart in one afternoon and you can't wait for your appointment. Not for vampires with insomnia.”
“Even if they just need to hear your voice again?”
She freezes, toes dug into the wool rug. The teasing is gone, replaced with some kind of concealed yearning. Her microphone picks up her breathing, and it's suddenly the loudest thing in the world. She sets the mandrake down on her imposing walnut desk and reaches for a pen. Nervous swirls, pressed hard enough to dent the pad of paper, get the ink flowing.
“I'm available on Thursday night,” she says. Steering the conversation back to business is safe. “7:30. Your place. Please secure any pets and unplug all electronic devices. No recording will be permitted. I will bring a consent form for you to sign, and final payment is expected within a week following our appointment. Any components of ongoing spellwork are to be left untouched for three days, after which you may dispose of the remnants in running natural water or fire unless I give you different instructions. I'll text the day before to remind you.”
“That's perfect.”
He sighs, content, and Rey hangs up before he can say anything else.