by Amy Boyles
A slate-gray cottage with a black shingled roof waited for me. A small brook wove behind the house. The water lapped and sucked over smooth stones as it wound toward the rest of the village.
The house looked inviting. In fact, it seemed as cheery and warm as all the rest. Yet for some reason my feet had stopped moving toward it. They hesitated, as if waiting for me to tuck and run in the other direction.
That was silly. This was Roman's house. I would be welcome. He had a cabin back in Silver Springs that I'd been to a couple of times. There was no reason he wouldn't want me here.
Hesitation clawed my heart. But this place was different. This was his real home. Not some sort of makeshift place like the one I knew. This was the real thing, and it would house a Roman I didn't know.
Yet.
I paused. How did I even know that was true? These notions were purely instinct, not fact. But as a wise woman once said, the more you feed 'em, the more they look like you. Which didn't actually apply to anything but sounded good.
I reached the door. My heart pounded against my chest. Lub dub. Lub dub. I knocked.
It swung open on dub.
Roman appeared. "Hey."
"Hey," I said.
Silence.
"Em told me I could find you here."
He nodded. "So you did."
Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. Which was stupid because it was cold and I was bundled in a big comfy sweater. "Sorry if I interrupted anything."
"You never interrupt anything, Dylan."
My knees wobbled. "Great. That's what I was hoping."
Silence.
"Do you want to come in?"
I shrugged. "Only if you want me to."
Roman edged back from the door and swept his hand across the threshold. "Be my guest."
I paused, unsure if he really wanted me inside or if he was just being polite. Then I reminded myself that Roman was an ex-assassin. Pretty sure if he didn't want me in, he wouldn't have extended the invite.
I gave him a timid smile and entered the cottage. A crackling fire warmed the hearth. Thick wooden furniture secured the space while sage-green cabinetry set off the kitchen from the living room. The open floor plan was both welcome and cozy.
The larger objects that stamped the cottage stole my attention for only a moment. It was the small details that hinged my breath to the back of my throat.
Pictures in wooden, silver, and even porcelain frames battled for nearly every square inch of unoccupied space. I shot a glance at one and saw a beautiful woman with flowing blonde hair holding a small baby. The photo was old, perhaps thirty years or so, but the woman's beauty was timeless.
"My mother," he said.
I looked at Roman, silently asking permission to take a closer look. In response he picked up the photo. His large hand cupped the silver etched frame gently. He handed it to me. "I was six months old in that."
My fingers skimmed the glass surface. Seriously, a top model had nothing on this woman. The smile in her eyes beamed happiness. She cuddled Roman in a way that said this was her child, one she loved ever so much.
"It's a beautiful picture," I said, handing it back to him.
Roman swiped a line of dust from the top of it and settled it back on the table. "There's more if you'd like to see them."
"I would," I said.
He took my hand and guided me past the sofa to the mantle. Roman pulled down a photo surrounded by wood. He was much older in this one, perhaps early teens. The entire family stood on the beach, his parents in the background and Roman squeezed between his three sisters. Wind whipped their hair as the sun blazed red and purple behind them.
All the children were lanky, tan and blonde—the same sun-bleached hair that topped Roman's head.
"This was only a few months before they were killed," he said, his voice grave.
I placed a hand on his bicep. The muscle quivered under my touch. "I'm so sorry, Roman. I shouldn't have come. This is your place, your sanctuary."
He faced me. "This is the house the witches gave me after the murders. These memories are all I have left of my family. I want you to see it. To know it is to know me."
I swallowed a knot in my throat. Roman knew my family. He'd seen my work. Yet I didn't know the depths of what lay inside him.
This place did.
I smiled and said, "I don't want to intrude."
Roman opened his arms. "It's yours to see."
My gaze brushed over the room. There were maybe a dozen or so pictures of Roman and his family. If anyone asked what was most important to him, the answer was here.
I walked around, eyeing the various pictures as Roman made sandwiches. There were pictures of the kids sitting on Santa's knee, pictures of them at birthdays, photos of his parents kissing. It was wonderful.
This was what was in his heart—his family. That was easy to understand. What wasn't easy was—
"So if you aren't particularly fond of witches, why is this your house?"
He handed me a plate, and we sat at his table. Roman spoke between bites. "There's an unspoken rule that they don't bother me and I don't bother them. I used to come here a lot. But the past few years, when I was wanted for murder, I wasn't able."
Pain twisted my heart. "So you couldn't see your pictures?"
He shook his head. "None of it."
"I'm so sorry."
He smiled. "It's fine. I'm here now." He paused. "So how are you adjusting to being queen?"
"I'm not. I hate it."
He chuckled. "Don't worry. You'll get used to it."
"I hope not."
"Hope not!"
I cringed at the sound of Polly's voice. "I'm hoping you'll have this investigation wrapped up in a few minutes so I can go home."
He more than chuckled at that. "We're still interviewing people. You don't want to help?"
I shook my head. "My investigating days are over."
He quirked a brow. "You might rethink that."
"Why?"
"Because we found something in Gertrude's dress you'll find interesting."
"Oh?" I said, trying not to look too intrigued. "What's that? And why are you telling me?"
He swallowed a bite. "It's like with the interviewing. Queens have privileges."
"Oh. Well, what did you find?" Sorry. I couldn't help myself. I had to know.
He cleared his throat. "Her wand."
bookmark:Chapter Ten
TEN
I stopped midchew. "But I thought most witches don't have wands."
"Most don't," Roman said.
I pressed a finger to my lips. Polly Parrot shuffled on my shoulder. "Then why did she?"
He smirked. "I thought you weren't interested."
I tore a slice of ham from the edge of the sandwich and popped it into my mouth. "I'm not. At all. Couldn't be any less curious, in fact. Just thinking out loud."
"That's some fairly pointed thinking." He thumbed a smudge of food from the corner of my lip. Oh, the tingles that ripped through me at his touch. Forget about it.
"I mean, if you have a theory on this, I wouldn't object to hearing it."
Roman nestled back into the hollow of the chair. The scents of pine and leather from his cologne wafted up my nose. My skin hummed.
"I don't know. Gertrude’s friends didn't know anything about a wand. They've all said the same thing—she'd never needed one before. So why have one now?"
I frowned. "Well, you're asking the wrong person here. I wouldn't know."
He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "I know. Just thought I'd throw some ideas out there, get your head working."
"You forget, I'm new to witchcraft. I have no idea how these crazy people think."
Roman threw his head back in laughter. "Darlin', you are one of these crazy people."
"Am not."
"Have you looked in the mirror lately?"
Why? Is there a zit on my nose? "Ha-ha. Very funny."
He eyed my empty
plate and said, "I'll walk you back to the castle. I've got some work to do there anyway."
I sighed. "Do we have to go back?"
He smirked. "Afraid so."
I tried not to grumble too much. I'm pretty sure my pouted-out lip announced to the world I didn't want to return to Castle Witch, but where else could I go? I was literally stuck here for what could be all eternity if Roman didn't figure out who killed Gertrude.
We wound around the village and down a path on the backside of the castle. I noticed a hedgerow of white roses. Their blooms were open. Petals faced the sky as if waiting for the sun to come down and kiss them.
A cold wind cut through the air. I hugged my sweater. "It's odd for those to be alive this time of year. It's winter here, right?"
He tilted his head back and forth. "Yes, it's winter, but those are special roses."
"Special? What do you mean?"
"Squawk! Special!"
He nudged me toward them. "Go see."
I shot him a skeptical look. Roman took my hand. A shock wave pulsed up my skin.
"Or…we could go back to my place," he murmured.
He must have felt the shock wave, too.
"Now, now, mister. We've got work to do."
Roman grunted. "Come on." He guided me over. We stopped about a foot from the roses. Roman pressed me against him. I didn't know if it was a protective move or simply one of ownership, but I have to say, I kinda liked it.
He leaned forward and turned his ear toward the buds. I did the same.
A quiet, almost imperceptible high-pitched voice sang.
A song.
In a language I couldn't understand.
But it was beautiful. The song seemed to exist on a higher frequency, like something a dog could hear. My ears caught snippets of it, but I felt that another level existed, one I wasn't privy to. A thousand slivers of voices, just one pitch away from being vibrations, echoed in harmony.
I gaped at Roman. He smiled, nodded toward the flowers. "It's even prettier when you pet them."
"What?" I asked, surprised.
"Pet them!" Polly squawked.
"Thank you. I heard him. It was a rhetorical question."
Polly said nothing. No surprise there.
Roman nudged me forward. "They like being petted."
I threw him a hesitant look, so he extended his palm first, allowing it to hover right above the roses. Then the oddest thing happened. The blooms closest to him elongated. Their petals brushed his palm like a dog craning its neck for a rub.
"Oh," I said.
"They won't bite," Roman said.
I flattened my hand over one of the blossoms, and it did exactly the same thing. It reached up and slid its soft petals along my palm.
"That's amazing. What are they?"
Roman ran his hand over the hedge. They cooed. "I've always called them singing roses. That's what Bannock told me."
"Bannock? The butler?"
Roman nodded. "They're his pets. They've been here since I was a kid."
A rose wiggled its way into my hand. I tickled its little petals. It shook in pleasure. "The butler's been here that long?"
Roman nodded. "Bannock's been here for ages. He was sick for a lot of it."
I quirked my brow. "Sick?"
"Yeah. My parents once said he might die."
I cringed. "That's terrible. He seems like such a kind man."
Roman gave the flowers one last pat and rested his hand on his hip. "Oh, he's a great man. One of the best around. When I found my mother—" He stopped as if the memory were too painful to discuss.
I placed an arm on his shoulder.
"I've never told you that."
"Told me what?" I said.
He pressed his lips into a thin line. "I was the one who found my mother and sisters. Their bodies."
I had no idea. "Oh Roman, I'm so sorry."
He nodded. "But after, it was Bannock who comforted me, who took a small boy into his home. He made me hot chocolate, wrapped me in a blanket and stayed by my side until my aunt could get me."
"What about your father?" I asked. "Where was he?"
He smirked. "Gone."
"Gone?" I said. "Do you know where?"
Roman shook his head. "No. No one's ever found him."
A thousand questions buzzed in my head. Of course I wanted to ask each and every one, but I couldn't. This was Roman's story, and a painful one at that. He would tell me what he wanted, when he wanted. I didn't want to push him.
"I'm sorry," I said again.
He glanced down at me. Smiled. Cupped his hand under my chin and tilted my face toward him. Roman pressed his lips to mine. I wrapped my arms around his waist and slid into the hollow of his body.
"Mmm," I said when we parted. "That was nice."
"Could be nicer," he said.
"How? How could it possibly be any nicer than that?"
He gave me a devilish smile. "I don't know. Maybe curled up by the fire at my house. The lights off, some soft music playing. Perhaps a little wine."
My back stiffened. Yes, that sounded nice. Very nice. Almost too nice. I knuckled him lightly on the shoulder. "Yep. Sounds great, pal."
Roman chuckled. "When you're ready, Dylan, the invitation is there."
I glanced back at the roses, trying to find a way out of the heaviness of this conversation. "Boy, these sure are great." I pointed my ear toward the blooms to listen to them one more time. The tiny voices released their high-pitched song, and as I watched, their petals vibrated and I heard—
Burrrp!
I leaned back, horrified. "Did they just belch?"
Roman nodded. "Sometimes they do that."
"Ew. Way to ruin a moment."
He chuckled.
"Hey, I saw you talking to the monkey king last night."
Roman nodded. "Yeah, I've known Brock since I was a kid. He's kind of like a cousin."
I puckered my lips. "So he's a good guy?"
"Definitely." Roman arched a brow. "Why do you ask?"
"Sera's kinda got the hots for him."
He smiled. "I can see that. They'd be a good pair."
I threw him a questioning look. "You think about stuff like that?"
He rolled his eyes. "I'm not just some dumb ex-assassin, you know. I think. I question life."
"Well, as long as you don't get all Plato on me, we should be fine."
Roman chuckled. "Come on, let's go back to inside." As we threaded through the singing hedges, I noticed a guard standing alone by a thicket of trees. It was the first guard I had seen.
"Is he lost?" I joked.
"No," Roman said. "He's guarding the curtain."
I pinched my brows together. "What do you mean, the curtain?"
"If you bothered being Queen Witch for five minutes, I'm sure your counselors would tell you."
I scoffed. "I would make a terrible queen. In fact, I am terrible. You, mister, need to figure out who committed this murder so the real queen can be crowned."
"Testy, testy."
I rubbed my temples. "So are you going to tell me about that sheet or curtain or whatever?"
He sighed. Probably annoyed with me. Well, he wouldn't have to be annoyed if he solved the murder. I would immediately stop being annoying and become my usual old Dylan.
Well, I'd become my old self. Not sure if I was annoying or not.
"The curtain is where you can slip out of here and go home. It's the other side of the veil, where we are. It's the place that holds our two worlds together."
My ears pricked. "Past that guard is a way out of here?"
He nodded. Paused. Eyed me carefully. "Dylan, don't get any ideas."
"I won't. I don't." I hooked my arm over his. "Come on. Let's get back inside. I'm sure someone needs one of us."
Roman opened the carved door to the castle. A black plume of smoke erupted from the hall. I leaped back.
Witches ran toward us. Roman wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me
out of the way before the stampede crushed me. He grabbed a witch by her arm.
"What's going on?" he yelled above the shouts and cries.
"The kitchen's on fire!"
Roman shook his head. "But why hasn't anyone put it out?"
"It's magical," she gasped. The woman looked at me. "It's your sister's fault! She created it. The thing's threatening to take over the castle. Run if you want to live!"
She yanked out of Roman's grasp and fled.
We looked at each other.
"Come on," Roman said, taking me by the hand. "Let's go fight a fire."
"What?" I shrieked. "Shouldn't we be running the other way?"
He pulled me forward. "Not with a magical fire."
Blood pounded in my ears as smoke flew up my nose. "What do you mean? Fire's fire."
"Not with magic," he yelled as people spilled past us.
"Why not?"
He stopped. "With a magical fire, you have to convince it to put itself out."
Convince a fire to quench itself? Yeah. That sounded easy.
Not.
"Okay. Let's do it," I said, totally kidding. I mean, who wants to walk into a fire?
Roman nodded and guided me toward the flames.
Apparently I had my answer. Oh jeez. What had I gotten myself into now?
bookmark:Chapter Eleven
ELEVEN
"Is this a good idea?" I said.
"Great idea," he replied. "Best you've ever had."
"I doubt that," I mumbled. A woman ran past us. My clothes lifted in the wake of her breeze. "I mean, people are running away from the fire, Roman. Away."
He glanced over his shoulder at me. "Your family might be in trouble."
"Why do you always have to make sense?"
"Because someone needs to."
I clicked my tongue. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
He tugged me forward. "Come on. Let's go."
Roman followed the black smoke that snaked along the ceiling. We cut a path downstairs and wove through hallways until we reached what must be the kitchen. It was a large room with a surprisingly tall ceiling considering we were in the basement.
My family cowered on one side of the room. A granite island separated them from—