"What do you mean, you nominated me?" I held my breath.

"Oh, dear. Shouldn't I have?"

Lydia Whitmore, a dear old witch who lived about ten minutes from me, was on the other end of the phone line. I could imagine her startled expression. With her kindly smile and snowy hair, always secure in a precise bun, her looks epitomized those of the cookie-baking granny. She also cornered the local market on being the goody-goody, saccharine-sweet variety of witch -- what society's more mundane humans wanted all us witches to be.

She had called to inform me that the Witch Elders Council had announced their plans to find a replacement for Vivian Diamond, the Cleveland Coven's high priestess who had mysteriously gone missing.

Not that it was a mystery to me: I'd handed Vivian over to the vampire she'd betrayed. Chances were she'd be missing a very long time.

To determine the new high priestess the Council was, according to Lydia, planning a formal competition called the Eximium. Lydia had, incredibly, nominated me as a competitor.

"Lydia, I don't want to be the high priestess."

"Pshaw and gobbledygook!" Lydia said. "You're perfect for it, Persephone! Knowledgeable, experienced, personable. And such a charming smile, dear. You'd make a fantastic high priestess."

"I'm flattered," I said, rubbing my brow, "but I can't do it. I wouldn't have time right now."

"Oh, that's right! You have the child, don't you?"

"Yes," I said. My new role as foster mother wasn't the only reason I had no intention of getting involved with the Council, but maybe it would be enough of an excuse to dissuade Lydia.

It had only been three weeks since Lorrie Kordell, a wærewolf who used to kennel in my basement during ful