A supernatural force on the loose in San Francisco and a family reunion keeps witch and vintage storeowner Lily Ivory on her toes as she prepares to walk down the aisle... When Lily Ivory stumbles on the uniform of a former prisoner from Alcatraz and SFPD inspector Carlos Romero’s cousin is kidnapped, Lily suspects something dangerous has been unleashed on the ghost-ridden island of Alcatraz. She'll have to sleuth out the culprit—when she’s not busy entertaining her visiting relatives and resolving romantic conflicts as her wedding date approaches. Could recent omens be pointing to the magical threat in her adopted city? If so, she'll have to line up her allies to change the fate of the Bay Area. Because no matter what, Lily's determined to celebrate her marriage with her friends by her side—even if it means battling a demonic foe before she can make it to the altar. Praise for the New York Times Bestselling Witchcraft Mysteries “Blackwell sits firmly on my list of must-read authors!”— New York Times  bestselling author Victoria Laurie “Extraordinarily entertaining.”— Suspense Magazine “Hard to put down, and wickedly fun.”—MyShelf.com “Juliet Blackwell is a master…Reading the entire series is a pleasure.”—Fresh Fiction “An excellent blend of mystery, paranormal, and light humor.”—The Romance Readers Connection Juliet Blackwell  is the pseudonym for the  New York Times  bestselling author who writes the Witchcraft Mystery series and the Haunted Home Renovation series. She is also the author of  Letters from Paris  and  The Paris Key . Together with her sister, Juliet wrote the Art Lover's Mystery series. The first in that series,  Feint of Art , was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Novel. ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** Copyright © 2019 Juliet Blackwell   Chapter One A salty, heavy shroud of fog obscures the night. Frigid waters close over my head. Sparks of silvery moonlight dance on the surface of the bay, calling to me. I flail and kick, struggling to lift myself, to breathe sweet air, my arms and legs numb with cold and exhaustion. The cheerful lights of San Francisco peek through the fog, tantalizingly far away; the island behind me is closer, but gleams and pulsates in the light of the full moon like a living, malevolent thing. The Golden Gate is the third point on the triangle, and I am in the center. A foghorn sounds in a mournful cry. Strong currents wrap around my legs, tugging at my feet, pulling me toward the Golden Gate and out to the vast Pacific Ocean. Lost at sea. Lost forever. I can’t go on. I fear drowning, but remind myself: Witches don’t sink. At least I don’t. I had been in the bay once before and popped up like a cork. But . . . what about now? Icy fingers grip my ankles, drawing me down. The water closes over my head again, and I try to scream. “Mistress!” I struggle toward the surface. Fighting, flailing. I have to. I have to. “Mistress!” a gravelly voice called again. “Are you all right? Why are you all wet?” I opened my eyes. I was in my own home, in my own bed. Safe. Oscar, my ersatz witch’s familiar—a shape-shifting cross between a gargoyle and a goblin—perched on my brass bedstead, leaning over to peer at me. His fearsome face was upside down and his breath smelled vaguely of cheese. Soaked and shivering, I let out a shaky sigh. I wasn’t sweaty from fear, but dripping wet—and smelling of brine—as though I had, indeed, just emerged from the San Francisco Bay. “I had a nightmare,” I said. “Yeah, no kiddin’. That’s one heck of a nightmare if you’re manifesting in your sleep. Were you swimming or something?” Oscar waved a handful of travel brochures under my nose. “Hey, check these out. I think we should go to Barcelona first, maybe.” “Oscar, I cannot discuss my honeymoon plans with you at the moment.” My brain felt fuzzy. I sat up and glanced at my antique clock on the bedside table. Its hands glowed a mellow, comforting green that cut through the darkness. City lights sifted through my lace curtains, but even raucous Haight Street was hushed at three o’clock in the morning. “But it’s the witching hour,” Oscar whined. “Ideal for spellcasting, not for making travel plans.” Oscar cocked his head. “What better time is there?” “In the morning. After coffee. When normal people are awake.” “But we’re not ‘normal people’—like we’d even want to be, heh!” He chuckled, a raspy sound reminiscent of a rusty saw. I’m Lily Ivory, a natural-born witch from West Texas who wandered the globe for years, searching for a safe place to settle down. On the advice of a parrot named Barnabas, whom I had met in a bar in Hong Kong, I had come to San Francisco—specifically, to Haight Street—where a witch like me could fit in. I love it here. For the first time in my life I have friends, a community, a home. If only the beautiful City by the Bay weren’t so chock-full of murder and mayhem. Oscar was right, I thought, plucking the soggy nightgown away f