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Chapter 2

I was going to die.

Murdered in my favorite place in the whole world, surrounded by my lovingly crafted candies (with the exception of the pumpkin toppers and the candy sticks, naturally).

Thirty-seven years old, never married, and no kids. I’d never even been to Canada! I’d lived in Idaho for five years, and I’d never been to Canada.

I’d meant to go. I’d even planned a train trip across the country, starting in Vancouver and making my way west until I landed in Montreal.

Two weeks, three if I made a few stops. I’d planned to write and enjoy the scenery and write some more. Maybe, hopefully, finish the book I’d started before I opened Sticky, Tricky Treats.

Except, I didn’t really write much these days. Who had the time?

And three-week-long trips were prohibitively expensive.

And then there was the question: did I go by myself? Bring a friend? Try to find a date?

But that was all moot, because a crazy man came into my shop. He was going to murder me dead. I wouldn’t be around anymore, and I definitely wouldn’t be going to Canada.

He headed toward me, but his path veered and he landed once again in front of the candy sticks. He removed a pair of gloves from a pocket. Dark black, like the ones my colorist used when she bleached and dyed my hair.

Then, gloved up, he gathered my orangey-brown candy sticks and deposited them on the counter in front of me.

Next he retrieved the pumpkin cupcake toppers and placed them next to the candy sticks.

“A bag?” he asked, and then had the gall to look at me as if I’d produce one for him.

When I failed to comply, he leaned over the counter and grabbed one himself.

As he leaned forward, I leaned back. An ounce of self-preservation kicking in, perhaps.

He stuffed the offending candy into the purloined bag. “Do you have an employee you can call to cover for you?”

I didn’t have a clue where he was going with that, because as soon as he said “call” I remembered my phone. The fingertips of my right hand were still touching it. “Hm?” I said as I slipped my phone from my back packet. “Oh, I think you missed a few orange candy sticks.” I tipped my head in the direction of the candy stick display, away from me.

“I got them all.” Level Eight crossed his arms. “Your phone won’t work.”

And I thought I’d been subtle.

Wait, my phone wouldn’t work?

Right. This from the guy who accused me of cursing my candy, so he probably thought he’d` put a spell on my phone, and hocus-pocus, abracadabra, he was going to prevent me from calling.

But if he thought that was true, then maybe he wouldn’t lose his bananas at first sight of my phone. I lifted it and dialed 9-1-1 like my life depended on it.

Or I tried to.

A solid black screen greeted my frantic efforts.

The crazy man had not abracadabra’d my phone dead. He hadn’t. I must have forgotten to charge it last night.

I inched closer to the phone next to the register. Yes, my store had a landline. And as much as I begrudged that bill each month, right now I was doing a little dance over the fact that I had another way to reach out for help.

Level Eight arched his eyebrows. “Go ahead. Try it.”

Dead. Just like I was going to be, because I was trapped in my candy shop with a murdery wizard.

Or a guy who planned really well.

Taking out both of my phones would definitely have required a lot of planning. Ugh. I’d almost prefer a murdery wizard to someone who plotted my takedown with such meticulous care.

“Okay. I’m super confused right now. I should call someone to cover for me, but not really because my cell is dead and you’ve cut my landline somehow.”

He retrieved a cell from his cargo pants. Yeah, he’d woken up this morning and had a moment when he looked in his closet and thought that cargo pants were a good choice.

And yet, I still found him attractive. Maybe he was an eight-point-five level hotness, since I’d initially looked right past those tragic pants.

He lifted the phone. “You have someone you can call?”

Strange man with a fake badge who was stealing my candy and had locked me inside my own store, wanted me to take his phone and call an available employee—which I did not have—so that my store could remain open while he murder-kidnapped me.

“Uh…” I was having a hard time fitting everything that was happening right now into my brain and making it come together in a way that made sense.

“An employee?” He prompted once more as he jiggled the phone in his hand.

“I’ve only got one part-timer, and she’s got midterms right now.”

He shrugged, as if that was just fine with him. It probably was, since he could murder-kidnap me even more easily without an employee wondering why they’d been called in last minute. “You’ll have to close the shop, then.”

Since he’d already done that when he flipped my sign to closed and locked the door, what was I supposed to say?

Except I was feeling contrary, so I said, “No.”

Because…no.

I would not be complicit in my own kidnapping. And since this whacko had yet to pull some kind of weapon out of one of those many pockets of his, I was calling his bluff.

He frowned, as if my behavior confused him.

My behavior. Me, the sane person who refused to be complicit in her own fake arrest. Except, I wasn’t entirely sane, because I’d accidentally refused the use of his phone, which I could have used to call for help.

I’d smack my head, but at this rate, I wasn’t entirely sure I wouldn’t give myself a concussion. That was just the kind of day this was turning into.

“Before we leave, I need to see your logbook.” When I stared at him in confusion—because what logbook?—he said, “Your logbook? Where you record the names and contact information for the recipients of magical items.”

‘Kay. First, I was skipping the issue of “magical items.” I don’t curse candy, and I don’t sell magical items. Just because my candy store was Halloween-themed, that didn’t mean I believed in ghosts, witches, and warlocks.

But this guy apparently believed in all the magical things, and I wasn’t about to tip his world view off its axis right now—if I even could.

As for the logbook?

“You’re kidding me, right?” I flashed him an incredulous scowl. “We’re not selling guns in here, mister.”

“Bastian.”

“Sorry?”

“Bastian Heissman, regional representative for the International Criminal Witch Police.” He pulled a wallet from yet another pocket. How many pockets did those terrible pants have?

His wallet contained a shiny badge that he was now displaying with a great deal of confidence.

Did delusional people have props?

This was news to me. I’d never been cornered and locked in my shop by a lunatic intent on arresting me for made-up charges. Then again, he had done enough prep to take out my cell and landline, so a fake badge fit in nicely with his careful planning.

“I want to see your badge.” Mostly because I wanted to mess with him just a little bit. My risk-taker side popped up at the most inconvenient of times.

He handed it over without hesitation. Freakishly, it looked and felt real. Solid. I’d expected something like a child’s wild west tin badge, I guess. It even had International Criminal Witch Police stamped on it.

And since I had his wallet in my hand, I flipped through it. I’d been right about his slight accent. He had a German identity card in his wallet, as well as an Idaho driver’s license. There were also a few credit cards. Each card had his name, Bastian Heissman, printed on it.

I returned it and then held out my hand palm up. “Your phone.”

“No.”

“Worth a try.” I leaned on the counter. “You know you’re going to jail.”

“Prison. Jail is a temporary holding facility where convicted criminals sentenced to a term less than one year serve their time.”

He sounded a little like a cop. Or a guy who knew cop-like stuff.

“So you’re saying you recognize what you’re doing is illegal and that it’s serious enough to warrant a longer sentence.”

He sighed. “I don’t have time for this. Are you familiar with the International Witch and Warlock code of conduct?”

“No. No I am not.” Honesty seemed like the best policy. I wasn’t denying the existence of magic or anything, just knowledge of some fictional rule book with fake rules that Bastian seemed to think I’d violated.

My response didn’t elicit a sigh this time. Rather than annoyed, frustrated, and generally impatient, now he looked concerned. “Who was your mentor?”

“Uh, Cat helped me set up my books. Betty, my super cool elderly neighbor, she helps with taste-testing. Oh, and Brian,” I wrinkled my nose, because even saying his name made me want to scream or eat a lot of milk chocolate caramel with sea salt. “My ex, Brian, helped with—”

“No, your witch mentor.”

And here it was. What I’d been trying to avoid. “No witch mentor, Bastian, because I’m not a witch. Because witches aren’t actually real.” I waved at the Halloween décor in my shop—witches, ghosts, and vampires, inclusive—and said, “Not real. Any of it.”

A determined light sparked in his eyes, and then he whipped out a pair of handcuffs from one of his gazillion pockets. Yet another reason to hate those pants.

Wait—handcuffs? No. No-no.

Except, yes. Bastian Heissman, regional rep of some imaginary witch squad was snapping handcuffs on me. How had that happened so fast?

“You can’t arrest me for…for…whatever you’re arresting me for!”

I couldn’t have an arrest record. I was no criminal.

No, no. That was wrong. So wrong. I would not be brainwashed by the crazy man. This wasn’t about being arrested. “You’re definitely going to murder-kidnap me now, aren’t you?”

The counter still separated us, which made Bastian’s cuffing skills freakishly good. I really couldn’t recall exactly how the cuffs had gone from his hands to around my wrists.

Then he pulled out his cell and made a phone call.

“I need transport.”

“I’m not getting in your murder van.” Pretty sure I screeched that loud enough for whoever was on the other end of the line to hear it.

“Yeah. Give me a five second delay.” Bastian tucked away his phone in one of his various pockets, grabbed his bag of purloined candy with one hand, and then leaned further across the counter to grab my upper arm with the other.

Then the everything went black.

Available on YouTube, but fair warning, it’s me reading 😉