All I have to do is convince my neighbours I’m not a supernatural assassin. The problem?

I am a supernatural assassin.

The first thing you need to know about me is that I am not Juliet Blackmore.

Look, you’d have done the same. The agency was putting pressure on me, a few jobs went wrong, and then I accidentally discovered a really big secret. I panicked. Saw the opportunity—Juliet was dead, and no one knew. It was easy to steal her identity and run away to become a shop owner in the Lake District.

I thought that would be the end of my problems. Instead, it was the beginning.

The shop I’ve taken over? It’s a front for the supernatural black market.

Oops.

Now I have a stream of witches wanting to peddle poisons and curses. An overly friendly werewolf pack who think I’m the magical cure to all their problems. Oh, and the annoyingly handsome local vampire hunter sniffing around, trying to find evidence of illegal activity.

When the murders start, it’s just the cherry on top of all my problems.

Because when shit gets real? Everyone points fingers at the outsider.