by Pat Esden
The mention of her name startled Em back to attention. “Yeah, definitely,” she said, drumming up a smile. She suspected Devlin expected her to tell Midas about how she’d used the rhythm of his spell to open the cell. But she was more interested in things related to Gar, like anything that might keep him from leaving. “No one’s said anything about what happened with the journalist.”
Brooklyn got up from her stool and collected Gar’s empty bowl. “Midas and I had a little talk with him.” She eyed Em’s barely touched meal. “Are you finished?”
“Sorry. The chili’s great. I’m just overtired.”
Chandler set her spoon down and glanced at Gar. “I didn’t go with them. But it sounded like the journalist is doing okay, at least compared to the night of the club fire.”
Midas scoffed. “You’ve got to be kidding. Sure, Rhianna’s spell didn’t totally fry his brain, but he’s far from with it.”
Brooklyn glared at him. “If you’re suggesting he’s not a threat to the witching world’s anonymity because he’s crazy, then you’re nuts.” The sharp tone of her voice made Em wonder if Brooklyn and Midas’s hookup days had come to a swift and hot end.
Gar coughed into his fist. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear anything about breaches in anonymity around here. What I don’t hear, I don’t have to relay to the Council.”
“Well, Mr. Hear-no-evil,” Brooklyn said, “if that’s the case, then you might want to cover your ears for another minute.”
Em sat up straighter. This didn’t sound good.
“What is it?” Chloe prodded.
Devlin turned to Gar. “Maybe you should leave the room.”
Brooklyn continued without waiting for Gar to get up. “The journalist has an additional and equally dangerous fixation.”
Midas continued the story. “The night of the fire—after he was interviewed on TV—the journalist spotted a shapeshifter changing. He followed him into an alleys on Church Street.” He slanted a look in Gar’s direction. “He’s convinced the shapeshifter was a loup-garou.”
Gar’s expression didn’t flinch, but his eyes focused only on Midas. “Was he positive it wasn’t a large dog? I can’t believe any loup-garou in its right mind would change in public. That’s against pack and witching laws.”
“That’s exactly what the journalist thought,” Midas said.
“But you’re positive he saw something he shouldn’t have?” Em asked. She didn’t need to remind anyone how easy it was to be deceived by looks. They’d all learned that lesson the hard way.
Brooklyn nodded. “No doubt about it. Whoever it was changed in public, as bold as anything.”
Devlin turned to Gar. “We’d be more than happy to keep looking into this for you. After all, breaches are the responsibility of the local coven.” He hesitated. “Same goes for the irregularities at the Council. We’re not going to sit still.”
“I don’t blame you. I’m not planning on letting go of this myself,” Gar said.
“Oh!” Brooklyn interrupted. She glanced at Em. “I forgot to tell you. The vet called.”
Em took a sharp gulp. The first thing she’d done when she got back was check on the kittens. They’d looked good. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. The vet called to thank you—well, both of us, actually. The vet reported how you found the kittens, and where. It turned out the police had received an anonymous complaint about someone throwing a bag of kittens in a dumpster.”
“They caught them?” Em could hardly believe it.
“Not after that complaint. The bag wasn’t in the dumpster when Animal Control checked. But after the vet called, they found what was left on the tracks. They searched the apartment house where the dumpster was…. It was all over the news yesterday. There were more kittens, puppies, iguanas…all stuffed in tiny cages in a dark basement. I just don’t understand people like that.”
Em rubbed her hand over her heart. “I’m with you on that. It’s just horrible.”
Bing-bong-bing. The chime of the front doorbell sounded overhead.
“That’s strange,” Chandler said, getting out her phone. “I’m expecting one of Peregrine’s friends to pick him up for a party, but it’s way too early.” She checked the screen and frowned, then passed the phone to Devlin. “Someone you know?”
A chill iced Em’s spine. Someone Chandler didn’t recognize. Someone unexpected.
She drew up her magic and reached it toward the front of the house.
A familiar energy waited there, terrifying and real. The fruity smell of Lifesavers filled her sinuses. The bitter taste of hand cream settled on her tongue. Her toes scrunched as phantom pain shot across the tops of her feet and up her ankles.
“Are you all right?” Gar asked.
“Phone,” Em rasped, holding out her hand.
Devlin handed it to her. She clutched it for a long moment, her hands shaking as she closed her eyes and braced herself. Then she looked at the security camera image.
A prim woman stood, one hip cocked as she glared at the doorbell. Her arms were folded across her chest. Dark glasses shoved up on top of her highlighted auburn hair. Fashionable jacket. Pressed jeans. A blanket scarf was tossed with careful indifference around her neck. Totally unchanged, even after years in prison.
Her aunt.
Chapter 34
There will always be haters and skeptics who doubt Violet’s abilities. I’m grateful to be the one blessed with the duty of shepherding her through this minefield of negativity. She is a sensitive child. A delicate gift
from God.
—Crystal Voyage Magazine, exclusive interview with Lynda Brewster
“Are you sure you want to talk to her?” Gar said as they reached the front door. “I’d be more than happy to get rid of her for you. Guaranteed, she’ll never bother you again.”
Em studied the back of the door, a single panel of oak standing between her and pure terror. “I have to do this. It’s like—” She wiped her sweaty palms down the sides of her jeans, struggling to come up with a comparison. “It’s like with the kittens. It isn’t who or why they did it that matters. It’s the accepting and moving on. The next step.”
Gar moved in close behind her, the warmth of his body soothing her as he slid his hands down her arms. His lips brushed the top of her head. “I’ll be right here. If you need me.”
“You don’t know how much that means to me,” she said. Then she took a deep breath and opened the door.
Her aunt had left the stoop and now stood with one jutted hip resting against the hood of a gray SUV. Another woman sat in the car’s passenger seat, head bowed as if intently studying something on her lap. Em didn’t need to see that woman’s face to know it was her mother, obediently staying put like she’d undoubtedly been told to do.
Em lifted her chin and scowled at her aunt, who tilted her head in a restrained greeting, then strolled back toward the front walk. Em pulled back her shoulders and marched forward to meet her. Her muscles ached from all she’d been through and pain radiated from the spot where Dux’s magic had struck her spine. Still, she kept her stance tall and her face impassive.
No one can take your power away if you don’t let them. Her therapist’s favorite mantra rang in her head, each syllable matching a strike of her heel. No one. Never.
They met halfway down the walk. Her aunt scanned her from head to toe. “So, you’re calling yourself Emily Adams now? A rather unimaginative choice.”
“You’re not welcome here,” Em said, her voice as sharp as a needle driven into unwilling skin.
“Your mother and I hoped by now you would have come to your senses.”
Heat rushed into Em’s blood. She hardened her voice. “Come to my senses?”
“Sweetheart, you know as well as I do that you’re not normal. You need to be with people who understa
nd your special needs.”
Em clenched her jaw, struggling desperately to will calmness into her body. No one could take her power. Never again. “I want you to leave. You exploited me. You abused me. Neither of you are welcome in my life.”
Her aunt glanced over her shoulder at the gray SUV. “You’re breaking your mother’s heart. You—” She looked skyward, as if searching for the right words.
“Yes?” Em said, knowing full well what always came next. Damn her aunt. Damn her for all those years of pain.
Her aunt smiled down her nose at Em. “Family is forever.”
The heaviness that had weighed in Em’s chest for years flew from her in a rush. “You’re not my family anymore. I have a new one. And if you ever dare to contact me again, I’ll—”
Her aunt’s eyes narrowed. “Call the police?” She tsked. “How many crimes are you guilty of? One word from me and you’ll be back in that halfway house, or worse. Now be reasonable.”
Em’s hands snapped to her hips. She bent toward her aunt, her voice deadly quiet. “I’m not talking about the police.” She paused, allowing her aunt’s discomfort to grow. “I’m not the only witch standing here, am I?”
“Ah—” Her aunt flinched, her hand going to her scarf, as if confused and surprised to have her negligible intuitive ability brought into the conversation.
“I know about Sarah Winchester and the curse the Eastern Coast High Council of Witches put on our family because of our ancestor’s crime. The question is, why did you refuse to tell me anything about our heritage?”
Her aunt clapped her hand over her mouth, totally stunned. “A curse? I have no idea what you’re rambling on about.”
Em smirked. Her aunt could pretend innocence, but the sweat beading on her temples and the fast rise and fall of her chest said otherwise. “You didn’t want the Council to find out about how you were abusing me and my abilities, did you?”
“You’re crazy—just like your mother. These—these witches you’re living with”—she waved her hand wildly at the house—“are messing with your head.”
“No one’s messing with my head. Not anymore. Not ever again.” Em stepped within inches of her aunt, never breaking eye contact. “I have a coven behind me, and friends on the High Council of Witches. One word from me and they will find you. I’m not alone anymore.”
Her aunt paled. “But—but your mother.”
“She’s not innocent either,” Em said. Then she turned on her heel, marched back to the house, and slammed the door shut behind her.
Gar’s arms wrapped around her, embracing her tightly. She shrunk against him, resting her forehead against his chest and closing her eyes.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded, listening closely as the slam of a car door echoed in from the parking area. The crunch of gravel under tires sounded, then faded into the distance. Then nothing. Blissful nothing.
“Come on,” Gar said. “You could probably use some quiet time.”
Em leaned against him as he guided her upstairs to her room. It was dark and cozy and warm. The kittens tumbled out from under the bed to greet them and she sank onto the floor with Gar beside her, letting the cats crawl onto her lap.
She snuggled the white one against her face, listening to his purr. She stole a sideways look at Gar and found him watching her. The world slowed to a stop as a heavy sense of sadness gathered between them.
“Gar?” she finally said, because she’d regret it if she didn’t. “You were right.”
His voice stiffened. “About what?”
“About you and me—and sobriety.” Tears dampened the corners of her eyes, but she lightened her tone and tried to sound teasing. “How many A.A. meetings have we missed?”
“We can go to extra tomorrow to make up for them.” He said it blithely, but his eyes filled with concern. “What’s really going on?”
“I’m going to miss you something awful,” she said, because it was the truth, even though they’d only known each other for less than a week. Feeling so strongly about him was ridiculous. But that was how it had happened with Alice, too. They’d met one afternoon on the loading dock at a conference center, two souls perfectly aligned.
Gar slid close to her and touched her cheek, looking in her eyes as he slowly stroked the outline of her face. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”
Her breath stalled. “Yeah?”
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t want to push or rush anything. But Devlin said—if I wanted to—I was welcome to join the Circle for celebrations. The full moon. Rituals… I come to Vermont to see my mother quite often. I could stop by, if you want.”
She flung her arms around him, pressing her face against his neck. Tears flowed from her eyes, exhaustion, happiness, so many emotions flooding out all at once.
He hugged her hard against him, rocking her. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his body and magic washing over her, strong and protective. Loving. Her Johnny. Her rebel knight.
“Em, there’s something else I wanted to ask you,” he said quietly. The seriousness in his tone surprised her.
She sat back, studying his face. “What is it?”
He smiled, his eyes sad and distant. “I’d like to do something for you. I’ve got plenty of extra money.” His gaze went to her feet, then returned to her face so fast her embarrassment didn’t even have time to surface. “If you want, I’d like to pay to have your tattoos removed.”
She stared at him, unable to believe she’d heard right. She’d never dared dream that was a possibility. It was something she’d never been able to afford. In truth, though, it also wasn’t her deepest dream. Her voice choked. “You’re amazing. It’s an amazing offer. But I don’t want to get rid of them. They are a part of my story.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?” He looked at her steadily. “Is there something else you’d prefer?”
She grinned. “Actually, there is. If you’re serious.” She gazed into his eyes. “I’d like to turn them into something else—something free and strong, and beautiful. Maybe a river and evergreens.”
His lips parted and lifted into a wide smile. “Anything you want. We could even go back there next spring, once the weather gets warmer. Campout. Just the two of us. We could stop by my sister’s house on the way. I’d like to introduce you.”
“I’d love that.” She touched his lips, tracing his smile. He took her face in his hands and leaned closer, looking deeply into her eyes a moment longer before his lips touched hers, a slow, lingering kiss. He smelled like moss and evergreens. Like freedom and new beginnings.
Freedom is not a soul set loose. It is a spirit that’s found its home.
—Journal of Emily Adams, age 22
Northern Circle Coven.
Up next in the Northern Circle Coven series
Our Entangled Secrets
Chapter 1
Burlington’s flying monkeys.
The originals were crafted out of steel decades ago.
I created mine out of car parts and garden tools
as a gift to my son on his third birthday.
Truly, if I could have made them fly, I would have.
—WPZI interview with artist Chandler Parrish
Chandler set the hand grinder aside and flipped up the visor of her welding helmet. She studied the fist-size heart on the workbench in front of her and smiled, pleased with the results. If she could just find the perfect strands of wire to use for the arteries and veins, then the heart would be ready to install.
She glanced across the workshop to where her latest flying monkey sculpture crouched on a rusty oil drum. It was crafted from scrap-metal like its predecessors. But this one was going to be an updated model with a trapdoor in its chest and a heart—a cross between the Tin Man and the flying monkeys of Oz fame.
“Mama?” Her son’s voice came from behind her.
“Yeah?” She turned to see what he wanted.
Peregrine stood in the workshop’s doorway, silhouetted against the autumn-orange leaves of a maple that sheltered the entry. Dirt smeared his jeans. His wild blond hair was tangled. Her chest swelled with joy. If she could ask the Gods and Goddesses for anything, it would be for his life to remain as carefree as that of the eight-year-old he was right now.
He looked over his shoulder, then his gaze whipped back to her. “Devlin sent me to get you. Some guy’s waiting in the main house.”
“Who is it?” Chandler asked, but her mama dragon instinct wondered what was going on in the yard that had required a furtive glance.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. The guy saw a shapeshifter turn into a loup-garou. Wish I’d seen it.”
Chandler pulled off her welding helmet and thumped it down on the workbench. Damn it. Their mystery visitor had to be the journalist. His spotting a shapeshifter illegally transform in public wasn’t that recent of news, but his dogged interest in the event—and his intrusion into the coven’s ongoing issues in general—was proving to be a major pain. Actually, she was shocked he’d showed up here at the Northern Circle coven’s complex. A couple days ago, two coven members had paid him a visit at the fleabag motel where he’d been staying to discover if he truly was a threat to the witching world’s anonymity or if he’d only come across as crazy to the average person.
“Devlin thinks the guy’s lying,” Peregrine added.
“Even if Devlin did believe him, he couldn’t tell the journalist what he saw was real, right?”
“I don’t think Devlin likes him.”
“That’s because the journalist is a troublemaker.” She walked over to Peregrine and smoothed her hand down his cheek. Devlin was the coven’s high priest. At twenty-five, he was younger than her by almost four years, but that made him no less wise. He was Ivy League smart, a powerful witch with polished good looks and kind heart that made him perfect for the Circle’s high priest position. She gentled her voice. “Do you know where Brooklyn is?”