"I've been alone for two years. I'm used to it."
"Doesn't mean you should be."
She wrapped both hands around her mug forcing herself to believe that’s that what just caused the sudden warmth through her chest. "Why do you care?"
"I told you?—"
"No. Really." She leaned forward slightly. "Why do you care about someone the whole town wants gone? It can't just be duty."
Tristan was quiet as he studied his tea like it held answers. Finally, he let out a heavy but quiet sigh as he said, "I know what it's like to lose someone because people were afraid. Because fear made them dangerous."
"Who did you lose?"
His jaw went rigid. "Someone who mattered."
The finality in his tone said the conversation was over. Maren didn't push.
One of the candles on the mantel flickered violently, not from a draft though. The flame stretched and twisted like something was pulling at it from the inside.
Maren's shadows recoiled.
"That's not wind," Tristan said, standing.
"No." She moved toward the candle, watching the flame dance unnaturally. "It's magic. Something's interfering again."
The flame turned blue at the edges, cold light mixing with warm. Maren reached out instinctively, trying to sense what was causing it.
Her magic responded and lurched sideways.
The candle exploded in a spray of wax and blue fire. Tristan yanked her back, his arm around her waist as flames spread across the mantel before dying just as suddenly.
They stood frozen, his arm still locked around her, both breathing hard.
"You okay?" His voice came out rough near her ear.
"Yes. But my magic isn't."
He released her slowly. "What just happened?"
Maren stared at the scorched mantel, her hands shaking. "Something called to my magic. Like it did at the stream. But stronger this time."
"Called to it how?"
"Like there's another shadow witch nearby. But that's impossible." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I'm the only one in Hollow Oak."
"Are you sure?"
"Shadow magic is rare. Bloodline magic, passed down through families." She moved over to the window, staring out at the storm. "My mother was the last in our line besides me. And she's dead."
"Could someone be copying your signature? Using it as a weapon?"
"Maybe. But they'd need deep knowledge of shadow work. The kind that's forbidden."
"Forbidden how?"
Maren's shadows curled tighter, protective. She'd never told anyone the full truth about her bloodline. Never trusted anyone enough. But, right now, she felt like she needed to.
"My family line isn't just shadow witches," she said quietly. "We're descended from the Pitch Sisters. Old magic. The kind that was outlawed three hundred years ago because it could manipulate more than shadows."
