Prologue
Serafina “Seri” Bell
The forest was alive with the kind of quiet that only happens when the world is holding its breath. The trees stood tall, their red and orange leaves rustling in a soft whisper, while the October sun threw dapples everywhere.
I walked along the narrow dirt path with my hand wrapped around one of Rasputin’s horns. The goat, pitch black with eyes like yellow marbles, trotted beside me, his ears twitching every so often as if listening to some secret only he could hear.
“Come on, you naughty thing.” I gently tugged him along, and he bleated in response, his deep voice gruff.
Rasputin knew he was in trouble, but he also knew he was loved. Our nearest neighbor, Ralph Gillespie, had called earlier, his voice a blend of laughter and exasperation, to say our infamous goat was at it again, this time munching through his prized strawberry patch.
Rasputin had a knack for finding the most inconvenient places to graze, and yet, every time he escaped, I couldn’t bring myself to be mad at him. There was just something about his expressions that made me laugh, even when I should be scolding him.
“You’re lucky Mama was so fond of you.” He tilted his head, as if he understood me, and I could swear he smirked. “If it weren’t for her, you’d probably be on your way to who-knows-where by now. And I suppose it helps that you’re useful. We need you to keep the weeds down, don’t we, Rassy?”
I scratched the top of his head with my free hand, his fur as prickly as the trouble he always seemed to find.
Thinking of my mother brought a familiar ache to my chest, a hollowed-out space that never quite filled. I hadn’t let myself think about her in a while. It was easier that way. But now, with only Rasputin and the quiet of the forest around me, memories began to surface, and I closed my eyes for a moment to indulge in them.
Mama had loved Rasputin almost as much as she loved Papa and me. She’d named him after a man she’d read about in one of her Russian history books. She’d said he just had a mysterious air about him. At six years old, I’d had no idea what that meant.
I still didn’t, to be honest. There was nothing mysterious about him!
“Troublesome, though, you’ve gotthatmastered,” I teased the old goat.
Mama had been a wolf shifter, and there was something wild and beautiful about her, something that made me feel safe and loved.
I didn’t have too many memories of her, but one was crystal clear. In the winters, when the farm was quiet and snow blanketed the fields, Mama and Papa would take me to the beach. It was our own little tradition, just the three of us. I loved the way the waves crashed against the shore, the salty spray on my face, and how Mama would shift and let her wolf, Feather, run along the water’s edge, all sleek power and speed. Papa and I would chase after her, laughing.
I opened my eyes, the memories fading like mist in the sun. Mama had been gone for more than twelve years now, taken by a breathing sickness. Papa and I had been devastated, but the two of us had helped each other keep the farm running and our hearts from breaking.
Then Papa went to a witch’s conference one summer and came home with Arabesque Harrow and her daughters in tow. Papa thought Amabel and Eluned and I would become good friends since the twins were only a year younger.
If only he knew.
Even at thirteen, I’d realized that something was wrong. Arabesque’s eyes and words were almost hypnotic, her motions captivating, and Papa—gentle, humble Papa—had been completely caught in her spell. Soon after her arrival, he’d turned distant and withdrawn, a shadow of the man he used to be, and I rarely had alone time with him. Arabesque controlled his every move, scheduled each minute, and I quickly learned I neededpermissionto talk to my own father. It was a hard change for a girl used to running to her papa for everything from needing a scraped knee kissed to sharing a colorful beetle.
And now, life was about to change again.
At dinner last night, Arabesque announced she was pregnant. I sat at the table, my hands clenched in my lap, as she smiled sweetly and placed a hand on her still-flat belly. Papa wasn’t even there. He hadn’t left the suite of rooms he shared with Arabesque in months, but I knew he was still alive. Had to be, if Arabesque was carrying his child.
I sighed, my fingers tightening around Rasputin’s horn as I guided him through the trees. I didn’t know what to feel about a baby other than worry. Arabesque and her daughters weren’t kind people. They were cold, calculating, and they’d made my life a living hell. Icouldn’t bear the thought of them raising another child, especially not one who carried a piece of Papa’s heart.
I had learned to tread lightly around them, careful not to draw attention to my feelings or opinions. Questioning Arabesque was like stepping into a lion’s den armed with nothing but a toothpick. Even worse were her twin snakes, Eluned and Amabel, who rarely gave me a moment’s peace.
“Just breathe,” I whispered to myself. “Don’t ask questions; don’t provoke them.”
I recalled the last time I’d dared to inquire about my father. Arabesque’s slap had come so fast, so unexpected, and I’d felt the sting long after the bruise had faded from my cheek.
Rasputin chose that moment to let out another bleat, as if demanding his cozy paddock, and I smiled a little. He never changed. Forever escaping, yet always in a hurry to get home.
“You contrary old goat,” I murmured.
As I led him home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting just beyond the edge of the forest, something that would change everything again.
And I was right.
After settling Rasputin back in his pen, I headed toward the house and turned the corner of the barn only to see an ambulance with flashing lights, its back doors open, and paramedics pushing a stretcher.
