I step inside and don’t know exactly where to look.
From the outside, I’ve seen this house so many times. I’ve parked down the block, watched the windows glow, tried to imagine what lived in there. But it’s everything and nothing like I expected, all at the same time.
It smells like beeswax and sage, smoke and something sweet. There are plants in mismatched pots crowding the windowsills, some thriving, some half-dead but stubborn. Crystals sit in little clusters on shelves, jars of herbs line a crooked bookcase with labels scribbled in black ink. Tarot and oracle decks are scattered like half-finished conversations across the coffee table. A black cat statue guards one corner, and in another, a stack of shoes forms what I’m ninety percent sure is an altar to chaos.
It shouldn’t make sense. But it does. It’s alive. Messy and witchy and sharp-edged. It’sher.
I’ve spent years living in a penthouse that’s all glass and silence, a fortress meant to hide me. But this house hums. Like it’s breathing. Like it’s welcoming me in even as it sizes me up.
Willow beams at me, wicked and warm, like she knows I’m seeing her world for the first time. “Don’t look so shocked,” she teases, tugging me further inside. “What were you expecting?”
I shake my head, still floored, still grounded by the taste of her kiss. There, on a shelf, I spot what looks dangerously like a human femur bone. “This,” I murmur. “Exactly this.”
“This way,” Willow drags me through the living room, and I catch movement in the dining room.
Iris is first. She walks out of the kitchen with a pot in her hands. She wears crisp black trousers, a white blouse, and a bob cut sharp enough to slice air. Her eyes narrow, assessing, as shesets the pot on the table and then turns to me with a cool grace that makes me feel like I’m about to be cross-examined.
“Lucky,” she says, not Kade, not Shade—my real name. And that’s just a little bit terrifying. It isn’t just Willow who knows my real identity, the dangerous one. It’s someone else as well. Someone I don’t know.
Iris extends her hand. Her grip is firm, her palm cool, and her expression doesn’t change.
“Iris,” I reply, and my voice almost cracks. I rein it in, force a smile. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
Suddenly, Opal breezes in, barefoot. She’s wearing a linen skirt hanging low on her hips and a little cotton top that leaves very little to the imagination. It kind of feels like this woman is only wearing clothes at all because she has to in order to be polite company. She’s a stark contrast to her sisters with her very blonde hair hanging all the way down to her waist. She beams like the human embodiment of glitter. “The boy!” she cries, and before I can process it, she throws her arms around me.
I freeze with the hug ambush. She smells like incense and sugar. My arms hover before I give in and hug her back.
“You’re taller than I thought,” she says, stepping back to look me over like she’s choosing a horse at auction. “Good. Sturdy. Willow needs sturdy.”
I bark a laugh. “Um, good?” I say, unsure exactly how to respond. “At least I’ve got that part covered.”
Willow groans. Iris pinches the bridge of her nose.
My eyes dart downward as motion pulls them. From the hallway, a plump gray cat pads into view. Slow. Deliberate. Her green eyes lock on me, unblinking. She stops two feet away and sits. Just sits. And stares. Straight at me.
The hair on the back of my neck rises. I’ve been scoped out by mobsters, by cops, by people paid to kill me. But never have I felt so judged as I do under this cat’s unholy scrutiny.
“Uh,” I mutter, shifting under the gaze. “Hi?”
The cat does not blink.
Opal grins like Christmas morning. “Oh, don’t be nervous! She’s just making sure you’re good enough for Willow. That’s Grandma.”
I blink. “Say what now?”
“Grandma.” Opal waves a hand toward the cat like this is common knowledge. “Our grandmother. Reincarnated. In cat form. She walked in one day and never left.”
Willow slides her hands into her back pockets, looking down at the gray feline. “She has the same personality. Demanding, bossy, smarter than the rest of us. She only ever sleeps on this one blanket that Grandma made when I was seven. She refuses to eat fish, just like Grandma. Somehow, she’s allergic to milk, just like Grandma. She even growls the same way.”
“She wandered in here on the one-year anniversary of Grandma’s passing,” Opal says, casual, easy. “And guess how old the vet said she was at the time? One.”
The cat flicks her tail, rises, and with a long, deliberate movement, rubs against my leg. Approval granted? My pulse skitters.
Opal claps her hands. “See? She likes you! Grandma always knows. Oh!” She crouches down, addressing the cat with reverence. “Grandma, this is Willow’s boyfriend. Lucky.”
I blink. Once. Twice. Five times. “You just…introduced me to the cat?”
“Grandma,” Willow corrects, deadpan.
