Nail Biter Read Online Free PDF

more greenish lights blazed up, revealing themselves to be the small propane lanterns Ellie and I had left here in case of emergency.
    Too bad they were all being operated by the other witches. On the other hand, at least I could see them as opposed to their flitting around me invisibly. . . .
    Oh, get a grip, I scolded myself, brandishing my toolbox. “So what actually is the problem here?” I demanded.
    And then I heard it.
    “Ow-owwow-ow-
oooohhh!
” came the sound.
    Ye gods.
    “Ow-w
ooooooh
-wow-wow!” Holding his lamp at chest level so it lit his face from below, which I heartily recommend as a strategy for illuminating every single one of your nose hairs, a man stepped forward. It was Greg Brand, the leader of the group.
    “Sorry to bring you out in such bad weather,” he said.
    “No problem,” I replied curtly. Dressed all in black—shirt and tie, slacks, black leather belt and wing-tips—Greg was tall, fortyish, and dark-haired with deep-set eyes and sharp features. His thin mouth tightened, probably registering my annoyance, but I wasn't about to make nice with him—or anyone—at that moment.
    “I'll just go find whatever's causing the noise and fix it,” I added, unwilling to trust myself to say more.
    Because the sound was ungodly, that was for sure, but it was also flat-out obvious what was making it: wind leaking in through some small crevice in a door or a window frame.
    Behind Greg Brand the other tenants gathered around the glass-doored woodstove which none of them had managed to light even though there was kindling and a big basket of firewood ready to hand.
    “How long do you think it'll take?” inquired Hetty Bonham in a snippy I-want-it-now tone that I felt was entirely uncalled for.
    Like Greg Brand, Hetty was forty or so, dressed too young for her age in white pedal pushers and a tight, low-cut pink sweater that put her considerable cleavage on display. She brushed back her long blonde hair impatiently. “Because it's quite annoying, you know,” she added.
    “It'll take as long as it takes,” I replied, counting to ten in my head. Along with rings, bracelets, and huge hoop earrings, Hetty wore an eye-catching silver pentacle pendant on a silver chain positioned on her chest like a flashing road sign:
This way to my two best features!
    “Anyone want to come and help me?” I asked. I didn't expect an answer. The tenants had already proven they weren't big on do-it-yourself projects.
    But to my surprise, the woman standing next to Hetty Bonham spoke up. “I will,” Jenna Durrell said agreeably.
    A slender brunette in her mid-thirties, she wore slim blue jeans and a crimson turtleneck with a pale blue sweatshirt. “It's coming from somewhere in the back of the house,” she added.
    According to the real estate agent who had referred this group to Ellie and me, Jenna was an ex-cop. But as she stepped forward I noticed the collection of items spread out on the coffee table behind her. The array included a deck of Tarot cards, incense cones, and what appeared to be a real, no-kidding crystal ball mounted on a black base.
    You'd think somebody accustomed to dealing with physical evidence would make the connection between the blowing wind and an eerie howling sound. On the other hand, the coffee-table items reminded me again that Jenna was here as a member of a witches' group. Maybe logic wasn't her strong point.
    I was about to turn away when I noticed Marge Cathcart's daughter Wanda peeping shyly from behind the others. She looked to be about fifteen, wearing baggy khaki cargo pants and a gray sweatshirt with a pocket on the right sleeve. Her long dark hair was pulled messily back with green plastic barrettes, and she stared at me with a frightened expression in her eyes.
    “Wanda doesn't speak,” Marge cautioned before I could try to say anything to the girl. “Not at all.”
    I'd known this; the real estate agent had told me. And to me it was just another strange fact about a