NIGHT ONE: The Cauldron & Cradle Inn
The Cauldron & Cradle was technically a witch-friendly inn. Which meant it was covered in hex graffiti, smelled like burnt rosemary and desperation, and the receptionist was a frog in a waistcoat.
Not a witch with a frog. A frog. That talked.
"Name?" he croaked without looking up from his crossword.
"Eve Nightshade," I said, glancing nervously around the lobby. A broom zoomed past my head and crashed into a wall. No one flinched. A cursed mandrake root was screaming behind the front desk in a birdcage.
"Room five. Don't touch the painting. Don't feed the mirror. And don't listen to anything that whispers to you after midnight."
"The painting?"
"It bites."
"Of course it does."
Salem leapt from my bag and strutted toward the stairs like he owned the place. The frog eyed him. "Familiars aren't allowed on the beds."
"I sleep wherever I damn well please," Salem muttered.
"Try me," the frog grumbled, flipping a page with a wet slap.
