The Witch Collector Part I Read Online Free PDF Page A

expecting from Chicago in the spring. Women wore funky dresses and ballet flats, or jeans with running shoes. The men walking beside them wore polos and cargo shorts. I fit in, though my thin T-shirt and rolled jeans were more surfer-chick than urban explorer. My ballet flats slipped against the cement, catching occasionally on the uneven sidewalk. I’d put them on in Oregon because I wanted to wear something nice to the training center. I thought about the comfortable hiking shoes sitting in my closet back home. Hopefully, we’d return before I had to replace them.
    I kept walking but soon realized I was going to have to turn at some point. Sacramento was pretty residential. The upcoming intersection showed only more apartment buildings. I stopped at the mouth of an alley, trying to figure out which way to go.
    Then I saw the sign.
    Fresh—Organic—Local
    And Cheap!
    Belladonna’s—Logan Square’s Best-Kept Secret!
    Open Late!
    An arrow pointed down a well-lit alley to my right. I followed it.
    The entrance to the restaurant faced the alley, which—given the many rat warnings posted on the telephone poles—seemed a little unhygienic. It looked cozy, though, with paisley café curtains and a bright yellow door held open with a ceramic frog. The aroma of roasting chicken filled the air and drew me in.
    â€œWelcome, welcome,” said the pretty woman behind the 1950s-style counter, her curly, dark blond hair held back by a pink bandanna. “Sit wherever you’d like.”
    The tables, covered in gingham cloth and topped by flickering candles, were mostly free of customers. A skinny guy wearing all black sat on a tiny stage in the corner of the room, distractedly strumming a guitar. I was tempted to sit and give him a real audience, but too much time had passed and I needed to get back.
    â€œDo you have carryout?” I asked.
    The woman looked up from the saltshakers she was filling. “Sure thing,” she said, smiling broadly and reaching into her apron. “Here’s a menu. Let me know what you decide.”
    My book of spells was probably shorter than the menu. It listed entrée after entrée, and the hunger raging at my stomach took away my ability to think. “Umm . . . I think I have kind of a big order. . . .”
    â€œThen a little appetizer first, no?” With a wink she handed me a caprese sandwich wrapped halfway in wax paper. “Here’s a pen. Why don’t you sit down and decide what you want. Go ahead and mark up the menu.”
    She eyed the guitarist, who’d mustered enough energy to launch into an unfortunate rendition of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
    â€œOn second thought, across the alley is the back entrance to the Friends and Neighbors Garden,” she continued. “There’s not much to look at this time of year, but at least it’s quiet.”
    I said my thanks and headed back outside, chomping on my sandwich.
    The gate to the garden was open, and I slipped inside. It was fairly well lit, the streetlights bathing the space in a weak glow. I sat down on the bench closest to the alley and looked around. In a few weeks this place would be beautiful, but now it was nearly bare, the decay of winter still overpowering the few plants brave enough to poke through the hardened dirt.
    I studied the menu. Everything sounded so good and reminded me of home. Potato-leek soup with dandelion greens. Farm-raised chicken roasted with root vegetables. Cheesecake topped with fresh-picked strawberries. It was too much.
    A deep, masculine voice cut into my thoughts. “What are you doing?”
    I bolted upright, whipping my head around.
    â€œIs that all you’ve got?” the voice teased. “You can do better. I’ve seen you do better.”
    It was coming from the alley on the other side of the park. And it sounded strangely, and comfortingly, familiar.
    Clutching the menu and half-eaten