Instead of saying that, this is what comes out of my mouth. “If that’s true, you’ll be honest with me. What’s your name? Who do you work for?”
He nods at Morgan. “Can she keep her mouthshut?”
An inelegant snort from her, “Bitch, please. I value Scarlett’s life over my own. Which means I will burn at the stake before I give her up.”
“Please don’t say that, honey,” I beg. “I love you, but don’t ever say those words. We’re in the middle of Salem, Massachusetts, remember?”
“Witches in Salem werehung. In Europe, they were burned. Either way, you know I mean it,” she says, unrepentant.
He stretches to his full height, his head nearly brushing the doorway. “I’m Wallace MacTavish-Taylor,” he says. It’s matter of fact, the way he says it, there’s pride there, too.
“Oh, Jesus wept, Kyle went after theMacTavishes.”I drop bonelessly back onto the stool. Dad purposely kept me from most details about the crime world, but even I knew who the MacTavishes were - the biggest crime family in Scotland.
“Why haven’t you killed me already?” I wheeze. “Sent my severed head special delivery to Marlena? Crop-dusted our cannabis fields with Roundup?”
Now, I’ve offended him. “I told you, we don’t hurt women. We don’t kill the innocent. That’s why I cleared Henry-”
“Maury,” I clarify.
“-Maury out of the building tonight.” Wallace points a thick finger at me. “You weren't supposed to be there.” He checks his watch. “We’ve been here for twenty-two minutes. That’s not good. Charles and all the Domme’s favorites are going to wonder why she closed early.”
“Morgan is not a Domme!” I snap. “She’s a particularly skilled witch and you better respect that!”
Another rise of that haughty brow of his. “Of course,” he says to her politely. “I have no knowledge of your spelling skills, Morgan. But you’re an excellent EMT. And we need to leave. We were never here.”
“No, you were not,” Morgan says crisply. She seizes her old canvas messenger bag and starts pulling things off the shelves, cat treats, a sweater, some snacks from the fridge and a box of her homemade tea, which is much better than her wine. “You can fit Murder Mittens in here. Your backpack got obliterated along with everything else in that building, right?”
“You’re completely correct, of course.” I hug her gratefully. “Thank you. I’ll contact you when…” The reality of the night suddenly hits me and my arms tighten around her. “What am Idoing?”
“The right thing,” she whispers back, squeezing me until my ribs creak because she has excellentupper body strength from hauling her cauldron around. “At least for now. Don’t tell that asshole this, but I have a strong feeling about him, or I wouldn’t let you go. Here-”
She pulls off her silver necklace, a three-pointed knot symbol with interlocking loops, and lifts it over my head, settling the charm at the base of my throat. “Take my Triquetra. I just renewed its protective power during the last full moon. You could walk around the docks at 2am and even the meth heads would steer clear of you. It’ll keep you safe.”
“I’ll keep her safe,” Wallace interrupts. He catches my glare and clears his throat. “But thank you for the help.” He hands her a card; there’s nothing printed on it but a phone number. “If anything happens - if those assholes threaten you - call this number.”
Morgan rolls her eyes, but takes the card. “The Wicked Steps are terrified of me. You’re right, though, you’d better go.”
Wallace holds the messenger bag open and I put Murder Mittens inside, even though she gives me a displeased yowl. “Do you have any security footage that shows us here?” he asks Morgan.
“Trust me,” I laugh as she smirks at me. “She doesn’t need it. No one in their right mind would try to break into Morgan’s spellshop.”
Checking his watch again, “Twenty-five minutes. We have to leavenow.”
The back door of the spellshop shuts behind us and I hear Morgan pushing the old iron latch down to lock it. It’s pitch black behind the shop, not even one of those quaint gas-flame lamps to shed some light. There’s a salt tinge from the bay in the cold breeze swirling down the cobblestone alley, pushing a scattering of leaves around our ankles as Wallace opens the jeep door for me. His hand twitches toward the seatbelt like he wants to fasten it for me.
Sucha gentleman. An arsonist, and a gentleman.
I’ve lost my mind.
Navigating back to the highway, Wallace puts in his earbuds and dials a number. “I’m on my way,” he says, the light from his phone throwing his face into sharp lines and angles. “Is the jet fueled and ready? Good. Twenty minutes.”
“Jet? Where are we going?” My hand moves to stroke Murder Mitten’s silky fur. “This is… I don’t have my passport. Or ID.” I huff out a disbelieving laugh, “Nor my phone. Or common sense.”
Wallace smiles, a curve of one side of his full lips, but it’s there. “I can get all of those things for you, aside from common sense.” His hand leaves the steering wheel to give my thigh a brief pat. “I think you showed plenty of that when you kepta cool head, trying to escape the fire tonight. I’m using one of the family’s jets, we’re flying out of a private airfield near Revere. You’ve got nothing to worry about, lass.”
Lass. His precise American accent slips a bit as he says that word, like he’s shedding this skin and exposing his true self: an enormous, gorgeous, Scottish… arsonist. From a powerful, terrifying crime family whose reputation would make an intelligent person wet themselves in fear.
Wrapping my fingers around Morgan’s necklace, I suck in a deep breath.
