“Stop,” I said. “You don’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me. You did everything right.”
She blinked, then covered her face with her hands. I sat beside her, pulled her close. The bakery was silent except for Oscar’s little claws click-clicking across the counter and the hum of the fridge.
After a minute, Aspen straightened. “I’m done being helpless,” she said, and this time her voice rang clear. “Oscar and I are opening the grimoire tonight. I’m going to learn what it’s been trying to teach me. I don’t care if it burns my hands off.”
Oscar puffed up, proud. “I concur, Miss. It is time.”
She met my gaze, all green fire and stubborn hope. “Mama left me that book for a reason. I’ve just accepted things are the way they are my whole life, Papa. I’ve let people bully me, and I’ve hidden myself away and allowed them to push me inside myself. But this is my home now. I’m done hiding. I’ve always had a spark of magic. I think that place held it down. But no more.”
I brushed the hair from her cheek and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be right beside you,” I promised. “Every step. No one’s getting through me or Oscar. Not ever.”
She nodded, her hand finding mine. “Let’s go home,” she said. “I want to start right away.”
Oscar hopped onto my shoulder, tiny paws gripping the fabric of my shirt. “We will need supplies. Candles, sea salt, perhaps a lemon and three eggs. And a number of other supplies.”
Aspen rolled her eyes. “He’s been reading too many recipe books.”
“Preparation is key, Miss,” Oscar replied, tone regal as always.
We packed up the register, locked the doors tight, and left the bakery behind. As we walked out into the daylight, I felt a new current running between us. Aspen’s spine was straighter, her gaze steadier. The fear was still there, but it was laced with something harder, something that would not be moved.
By the time we reached the truck, I realized it wasn’t just me protecting her anymore.
Aspen was ready to fight back, and the world had better be ready for her.
Chapter 13
Wyrdmother, Verdant Hollow Coven
The only sound in the chamber was the brittle staccato of my fingernails drumming on the edge of the obsidian table. I found it soothing, this steady beat a reminder of the discipline that had seen me through four wars, seven betrayals, and the slow, sticky decay of power that threatened every Wyrdmother once the first streak of gray curled into her hair. Of course, my own hair had long since abandoned color, but I wore it in a crown of wild silver and platinum, thick as wire and twice as sharp. No one dared call me old. Not if they liked the current shape of their bones.
The chamber was the heart of Verdant Hollow, and it reflected my tastes: black marble floors laced with gold, high leaded windows in the southern tradition, velvet drapes the color of dried blood. One entire wall was devoted to the spoils of my reign—row upon row of glass vials, each labeled with names in a script only three living witches could read. Some vials contained venom, some tears, some whispers. The rest were more dangerous.
I’d had my trackers on the hunt for Aspen since the day she’d fled. I had heard she’d been found and was about to receive confirmation. The anteroom doors swung open with the hush of oiled hinges and the cautious shuffle of women who’d spent a lifetime learning to read my moods. Olive led, tall and too thin in the face, her robes immaculate, her eyes sharp as an undertaker’s scalpel. Maggie and Teela trailed behind, both clutching black leather satchels and avoiding my gaze with the subservient air of junior nuns in a room with the Pope.
Olive bowed her head just so, enough to acknowledge my status, not so much as to seem afraid. She set a small lacquered box before me and unlatched the gold clasp. The smell that drifted out was not quite floral, not quite sweet. It was the scent of blood magic, old and raw.
“She has been found, Wyrdmother.”
She produced a square of receipt, folded into a neat triangle. “From Dairyville. A bakery called Buttercream & Blessings.” I felt my pulse quicken.
“And?”
She didn’t smile, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “Owned by one Aspen Waters.”
Maggie produced another item; a clear zippered pouch holding a small tuft of gray-brown fur. She held it at arm’s length, as if it might sprout fangs and bite. “This was found outside the girl’s residence.”
I reached for the bag, pinching the fur between two fingers. Instantly, a current ran up my arm—a tingle of residual energy, familiar and disgusting. “Wolf,” I confirmed. “Male. Unbonded. The only pack in Dairyville, Texas is Iron Valor.” I spat the name like a curse.
Teela’s hand shook as she scribbled my words into her ledger.
“So,” I said, letting the syllable hang like a sword, “the little dud has run to the mongrels. How poetic. Laurel always did have a sense for melodrama.”
I let them bask in the humiliation for a moment, then snapped my fingers. We needed more information about her relationships. I had to know how she could be exploited for the easiest extraction.
I looked at my girls and let them know we had a bit more work to do.
“Get the bowl.”
