“I never introduced myself.” She turns her winter-blue eyes onto me. Her voice is silky, not at all as sharp as a moment ago. “I’m Julia Moreau, Sanguine Witch.”
I grab the fireplace poker and point it at her. “I kinda figured you were a witch when you tried to kill me with magic.”
The wordswitchandmagicsound strange coming from my lips. This can’t be happening.
“Tried,” she says, as if that makes it fine. “I stopped, didn’t I? A little forgiveness would go a long way, love.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” I step forward, keeping the point level with her chest. “New rule. You don’t use magic on me or my property. I may be stuck with you, but I’m not your puppet.”
Julia raises an eyebrow, amused. “And what will you do with that little stick?”
“Iron,” I say, remembering the folklore I read in one of Riley’s books. “Want to test if the stories about iron and magic are true?”
There’s a flicker of surprise in her eyes. Then her lip curls, and she steps forward until her bodice is pressed against the tip of the iron. “Go ahead.”
Shit.
She grabs the end of the poker with her bare hand—so much for that theory—and rips it out of my grasp. It hits the couch, then bounces to the floor with a clatter, and I scramble back.
My heart jumps.Yeah, poke her with a stick, Hannah. Brilliant survival instincts.Now I’ve pissed off someone who can kill me with a twitch of her fingers.
I step behind the round kitchen table, keeping it between us, and curl my fingers over the back of a wooden chair. I need to figure out how to reverse whatever this is, and fast. “How do we unbind?”
“Not by brandishing sharp implements at one another, I assure you.”
She stalks around the table toward me. I step sideways to keep it between us. Though she’s only a few inches taller than me, it feels like she’s taking up all the space in the kitchen.
“But itcanbe fixed?” I ask. “I’m not stuck with you forever?”
“Every lock has a key. We just need to find the witch who cast the spell.”
I freeze, bile rising in my throat.
Here’s the question: what in the living hell was Riley doing with a journal that held an ancient witch trapped inside? And why did she give it to me under the guise of being a book of love poems?
“Promise me you’ll always keep this close, no matter what…”
Ice shoots through my veins. Holy fuck, did Riley get involved in something darker than I realized? The mysterious books, the scars, the way she’d been acting…
Is she a witch?
I’ve only known her for a couple of years. Maybe she dumped me before I realized she’s secretly five hundred years old and…
No. This doesn’t fit with the Riley I know. She isn’t evil or dangerous. Besides, her strange behavior only started happening in the last two weeks. Wouldn’t she have known this about herself long ago?
“Do you know who cast it?” I ask, my mouth dry.
“I do,” Julia says, “and we’d best find her quickly.”
The hardwood creaks under our feet as we move in this dance around the table, predator stalking prey. The house feels too small, the air too thick.
I’m hyperaware of her movements, the way her hips sway as she stalks me, the grace in her steps. My skin prickles like I’m being hunted, and the worst part is that each time her steps bring her closer, the ache in my temples eases and I breathe a little easier. There’s a pull low inside me, like my body wants to stop fleeing and move closer despite my terror.
I ignore what my body wants, stepping sideways to keep her opposite to me.
“What’s her name?” I ask, trying not to sound terrified of the answer.
“Rebecca, and she’s a formidable celestial witch, which means the spell will become permanent when the moon sets.” Julia looks out the window, her nostrils flaring. “What phase is the moon tonight?”
