The Windhaven Witches Omnibus Edition : Complete Paranormal Suspense Series, Books 1-4

by Carissa Andrews

  “Okay, so what’s your guess,” I chuckle.

  “A bit obvious, really. It’s an old-fashioned stationary bike,” he declares.

  I stare at it, surprised by how accurate a possibility his guess is.

  “How am I going to compete with that?” I say, thrusting my arm out and pointing my upturned palm at the item.

  “Just make a guess,” he laughs.

  I lower my eyebrows and cast him a sideways look. Stepping farther in the room, I edge a little to the left to get a different vantage point.

  “I think you were close, but no cigar. It’s clearly one of those old circus bikes with one wheel that’s bigger and one that’s smaller,” I say, holding my chin up high.

  Wade shakes his head, chuckling under his breath as he walks forward. “All right… and the winner is…” In one fell swoop, he lifts the sheet. Dust flies into the air in a great plume, and we both take a step back, coughing.

  There, underneath the sheet, is an old-fashioned spindle.

  “Well, there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. My girlfriend is actually…Sleeping Beauty,” Wade says, laughing as he turns to me.

  But for me, it’s no laughing matter at all. I remember what we learned about the Moirai.

  Is this another one of their warnings?

  Chapter 4

  Pomp and Circumstance

  Anxiety wells up inside me, making my stomach roll and churn. Before I know it, my spaghetti is on its way back up. I rush down the hall to the nearest bathroom, barely getting enough time to close and lock the door behind me before I empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet.

  “Autumn? Autumn, are you okay?” Wade asks, pounding on the door. The handle jangles as he tries it but holds steady.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be just a minute,” I sputter.

  Jitters consume my body and for a moment, it’s all I can do to not pass out—or fall over. When they subside, I wipe the side of my mouth and lean back, resting my head on the wall behind me.

  I shouldn’t let things get to me like this. It isn’t healthy. At this rate, I won’t need the Moirai to finish me off. I’ll end up doing it to myself.

  “Seriously, Autumn. Are you okay?” Wade says, from the other side of the door.

  Inhaling slowly, I push myself forward, crawling on all fours to the door. I pull myself up on the counter and unlock the door. Stepping back, Wade pushes it open.

  “Sorry, I’m just a bundle of nerves. I saw that…spindle and it freaked me out,” I whisper.

  Wade’s dark eyebrows furrow and he eyes me closely. “You look like death.” He screws up his face. “Sorry. Kinda slipped out.”

  “I feel like death,” I mutter. “It’ll pass. I’m just too… raw.”

  Wade wraps his arms around me, pulling me into his chest. The heat from his body sends chills rolling through me as he attempts to warm me up.

  “Come on. That’s enough exploring for one day. Let’s get you in bed,” he says, leading us out of the bathroom and into the darkness of the hall.

  The next few days pass in a blur of anxiety-induced bedrest. My stomach has continued to be persistently queasy, and anything I attempt to eat doesn’t linger long inside my system. Between the family curse and the reading of the will, there’s no safe place to settle into. I don’t know how to relax anymore.

  Before I know it, it’s Monday.

  The executor of the will will be arriving any minute, and I have yet to get dressed for the day.

  “I don’t wanna do it,” I whine, lying back on the bed.

  Wade laughs, reaching for my hand. “I know, but you need to get out of this bed anyway.”

  “Do I really, though?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Yes, you do. As much as I love you, you need a shower and fresh clothes.”

  “What are you saying? I stink?” I sit up, scoffing in mock offense.

  “It’s quickly getting there,” he laughs. “Now, move it. You’ll feel better afterward and then we’ll get this reading over with. You’ll feel better after all that, too.”

  I grumble, but shuffle my way to the bathroom. If the past couple of days in Wade’s care wasn’t enough to remind me of his time as a personal care assistant, it’s evident as I walk into the room. Fresh clothing is laid out across the radiator, along with a towel. My brush and my usual cosmetics and girly products are strewn across the counter.

  Smiling to myself, I turn the shower on and cast a glance into the hallway. I can barely make out my bedroom doorway from here, but it appears Wade has vacated the room for less-confined pastures.

  I can’t say I blame him. He’s spent the past few days by my side.

  As I remove my clothing and drop it into the hamper, I stop by the mirror, gaping at myself. Dark circles accentuate my hazel eyes and I look like I could compete in a goth makeup competition.

  Making a face, I turn back to the shower and hurry to get in.

  While the water feels good, it does nothing to quell the panic brewing inside of me.

  Nothing ever prepares you for losing a parent. As much as I think I’ve gotten over it, one more thing crops up, bringing it all back. One day it’s a picture in the hall. Another day it’s a casual conversation. Then it’s something more serious, like dealing with the will.

  By the time I step out of the shower, the room is frigid in comparison.

  Hurrying over to the radiator, I grab my towel, grateful that Wade thought to put it on top of the toasty heat. After I dry off and dress, I have to admit, I do feel better. Not quite like a full-fledged human being, but close enough.

  I make my way over to the bedroom, just to make sure Wade’s not there, unsurprised when he’s not. Padding my way down the hallway, I’m surprised to hear voices as I close in on the grand staircase.

  “Will Ms. Blackwood be attending?” a soft male voice asks.

  “Yes, she was just getting ready. She’ll be here momentarily,” Wade responds, ever the gentleman. “Is there anything I can get for you while you wait? Coffee, tea?

  “Water would be lovely. Thank you, Mr. Hoffman.”

  “Not a problem.” Wade walks out of the sitting room just as I round the corner to the main entry. He walks over to me and places his hands on my upper arms. Kissing me on the forehead, he says, “Breathe. It’ll all be over soon.”

  I inhale slowly through my nose. “So, he’s in there?”

  Wade nods. “But he won’t bite. Just go in and introduce yourself. I’m getting him some water. Do you want anything?”

  “Vodka?” I mutter.

  “Probably not a wise choice, considering. How about some tea? I think I saw chamomile in there somewhere,” he says, jabbing a thumb toward the kitchen.

  I nod in response, turning to face the sitting room. “Okay, here goes nothing.”

  Wade drops his hands, squeezing one of mine as he continues on his way.

  Straightening my shoulders, I walk down the remainder of the hallway and into the sitting room.

  A rather thin man in a dark-blue suit stands up from the couch. He’s no taller than I am as he walks up to me with his arm outstretched. I reach for it, shaking his hand. His light eyes are the color of amber, which are reflected in the undertones of his blond hair.

  “Ah, you must be Ms. Blackwood,” the man says. “Henry Peterson. I’m with Harper, Lance, and Scott.”

  “Hi, Mr. Peterson. Yes, I’m Autumn. It’s nice to meet you,” I say, taking a seat on the couch opposite him.

  On the coffee table between us is a small stack of paperwork and a small wooden box.

  Mr. Peterson also takes a seat, resting his hands on his knees. “Will Mrs. Blackwood also be joining us?”

  I scratch my temple, trying hard not to make a face. “She really wanted to be here, but she wasn’t able to get away from work.”

  Mr. Peterson’s face darkens. “I see.”

  An awkward silence stretches between us and I lean forward, clearing my throat.

  “
She was pretty adamant that if anything pertained to her, you’d be able to find out where to reach her,” I say, trying to gloss over the transgression.

  His face tightens as his gaze drops to the stack of paperwork. “There is, indeed, much in here that pertains to her. However, we shall start with what your father has willed over to you, if that’s all right.”

  I inhale sharply, nodding. “Sure.”

  “Okay, I have a water for you, Mr. Peterson. A chamomile tea for you, Dru,” Wade says, handing us both our drinks.

  Mr. Peterson opens his mouth, appearing at first to offer his gratitude, but pulls up short. “Did you say, Dru?” His jaw hardens as he looks between us with a sense of suspicion.

  Wade, on the other hand, laughs it off. “It’s just a pet name for Autumn.”

  The startled gaze doesn’t diminish on Mr. Peterson’s face. “Before we get started, I think it might be best to see some form of ID.”

  “What? Really? She looks like the female version of her dad—” Wade sputters.

  I reach out, placing a hand on Wade’s forearm. I try to quell his annoyance with a significant glance. “Would you mind running to the bedroom and grabbing my purse?”

  He sets down a third mug, presumably his own, on the coffee table. “Sure.”

  Without another word, Wade walks out, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath. I’m pretty sure I heard the word ridiculous in the middle of the tirade.

  “Sorry about that. We’ll take care of any confusion,” I say, sitting up straighter.

  “Indeed,” Mr. Peterson says, pursing his lips.

  Rather than speak, the two of us sit in ghastly, uncomfortable silence, listening to the sound of the large clock on the wall tick the seconds away.

  “And just who is this?” Abigail says, appearing to my right.

  I let out a squeal of surprise, and try to stifle it with my fingertips.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Mr. Peterson says, looking around the room with wide eyes.

  I pat at my chest and nod. “Sorry, yes. I just thought I…” I shake my head, realizing I have absolutely no alibi for something as odd as that.

  “Yes?” he presses, leaning in.

  “I thought I saw an animal run past the window just now,” I say. It’s not a great lie, but it’s enough to make Mr. Peterson turn around and look out the window behind him.

  I shoot Abigail a look of consternation. She shrugs, wandering over to the fireplace and lingering beside it.

  “Well, I don’t see anything now,” he says, turning back around to face me.

  “Here you go, my lady,” Wade says, his voice somewhat deadpan as he hands the purse over.

  I chuckle under my breath at his attitude. As much as he loves to be of service to others, he likes to do it on his own terms.

  “Thanks, Wade,” I say, reaching inside and digging out my driver’s license.

  When I find it, I pass it over to the executor, who eyes it more closely than someone who thinks I shouldn’t be buying beer. After a moment, he passes it back to me, satisfied I am who I say I am.

  “Well, let’s get started, shall we?” he mutters, picking up the papers and placing them in his lap.

  Wade takes a seat on the couch beside me, eyeing Mr. Peterson with as much suspicion as he was just doling out to us.

  “Oh, the manly energy fills the air. It appears things have not changed all that much in the face of men,” Abigail chuckles.

  I smile, dropping my gaze to my lap.

  “So, to start with, I would like to extend my deepest condolences, Ms. Blackwood, for the tragic loss of your father,” Mr. Peterson says in what I can only imagine is his ordinary pomp-and-circumstance tone.

  “Thank you,” I mutter, biting down on the side of my lip.

  “I have the final will and testament, produced and notarized by your father. It was graciously handled not terribly long ago, so I feel very confident in its findings,” he continues, passing me a copy of the will. “Now, rather than bore you with the details, I’ll just skip ahead to the parts that pertain to you, if that’s quite all right?”

  I look over my shoulder at Wade, who just shrugs. My guess is he’s just as happy to have this uncomfortable exchange done and over with as I am.

  “Okay, that sounds fair,” I say, turning back to him and nodding.

  “Excellent. You will, of course, have all of the details in the documents there, should you want to know about any other aspects,” he says, dropping the paperwork and picking up the small wooden box. With a twitch of his lips, he stands up and passes it over to me.

  Confused, I take the box from him. The outer shell is decorated in elaborate carvings. However, there are no hinges, no locks. In fact, nothing to indicate it opens. Just a…box.

  “What is this?” I ask, lifting my gaze to Mr. Peterson.

  “I wish I knew,” Mr. Peterson says. “I must say, it’s had the rest of us at the law firm very curious when I retrieved it from the safe deposit box for you.”

  I rotate it in my hands, looking for something, anything, that stands out on it that might explain why my dad would leave me something like this. Is it a key to fighting the Moirai? Or is it just an old family heirloom?

  Discreetly, I look over my shoulder, trying to see if Abigail is still there. Sensing my question, she walks closer and bends down right beside me.

  “I have never seen such a thing before,” she whispers, eyeing it with the same bewilderment.

  I shake my head. “I’m not sure what it is, either,” I say, flipping it over.

  “These look like they could be words,” Wade says, pointing to some of the carvings along the corners.

  “Well, I do hope you’ll share with us the mystery of the box,” Mr. Peterson says with a wistful longing in his eyes. It’s clear the mystery of the box is the most excitement this guy has seen in years.

  Tipping my head, I say, “I will do that.”

  “Now, other than the box,” Mr. Peterson says, holding onto his lapel like he’s about to give a great speech, “you have also been willed quite a nice lump sum.”

  Wade and I exchange a significant glance as Mr. Peterson takes a sip of his tea.

  “How much?” I ask.

  “Fifty-million dollars.”

  Wade spits out his tea. Then he wipes frantically at his knees.

  “I’m sorry, did you just say fifty million?” he asks, blinking wildly.

  My jaw hangs open and I don’t quite have the words.

  “Now, of course, the rest belongs to another beneficiary,” Mr. Peterson says, almost as if he’s somber about relaying that information.

  “Wait—what about the house?” I say, suddenly alarmed.

  “Well, I’m afraid the house doesn’t belong to you,” Mr. Peterson says.

  “What?” I sputter. “You have to be kidding. Who else would my father will it to?”

  Mr. Peterson sits up a bit straighter, tugging at his collar. “Well, to his wife, of course.”

  Chapter 5

  Puzzling

  All thoughts in my brain tangle with one another as I grapple to make sense of what the executors said. The word wife being associated with my dad has completely short-circuited my inner dialogue.

  Wade turns to me, clearly as baffled as I am. Shrugging, I return my gaze to Mr. Peterson.

  “I’m sorry, you must be confused,” I say, shaking my head. “My dad wasn’t married. Are you sure you have the most up-to-date will?”

  Mr. Peterson’s light eyebrows tug in slightly, but his gaze flits to the paperwork. “No, I’m quite certain. As I said before, the will was notarized only a couple of weeks prior to Mr. Blackwood’s presumed death.”

  “But that makes no sense,” I say, wracking my brain for an answer. He’d never mentioned another woman being in the picture and I would have thought she’d be prowling the house if she had some sort of claim on it.

  “I really don’t wish to get into the middle of a family squabble. But t
his is why we requested Mrs. Blackwood be in attendance. There are some important estate documents that require her signature,” Mr. Peterson says, shuffling the paperwork in his lap. Then he reaches down, pulling up a briefcase stored by his feet. With a sideways glance at us, he files the extra papers inside and clicks the lock shut. “But I suppose you’re quite right about reaching out to her. Our office will make arrangements to have this matter squared away.”

  I nod absently, realizing the craziness of his claim.

  My mom and dad can’t still be married… can they?

  Does she even know? Or is this why she didn’t want to be here? Because she knew I’d have questions that she didn’t want to answer?

  “Well, despite the unfortunate circumstances, I hope it lightens your heart to know your father loved you very much, Ms. Blackwood,” Mr. Peterson says, standing up. “That’s a very sizable inheritance. If you need any recommendations on financial planners, I would be happy to offer a few suggestions. Of course, nothing needs to be decided now.”

  “Thank you,” I say, standing up as well. I set the small box down on the coffee table and extend my hand to him. “I appreciate you coming out here. It’s been very informative.”

  Wade also stands, but remains quiet and reserved beside me.

  “If you have any questions on the remainder of the will, please do give me a call. Here’s my card, should you need it,” Mr. Peterson says, handing me a small rectangular card. It’s a thick, white piece of paper with gold letters embossed into the top that read Harper, Lance, and Scott.

  “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, nodding as I set it on the table beside the wooden box.

  “And do let me know if you figure out that box,” he says, grinning and tipping his chin toward it.

  A halfhearted smile is as much as I can manage.

  Wade must have sensed my agitation. He’s the first to move, walking out of the sitting room and over to the front door to open it. Mr. Peterson and I follow him. For the briefest of moments, the executor turns to me as if he’s going to ask another question or say something else, but instead fashions a smile and simply nods. Patting my shoulder, he walks out without another word, making his way down the front steps and over to his silver BMW parked in the front loop. With a quick nod, he settles into the vehicle and drives off.