Chapter 8
Renata
It takes me a second to adjust to the light, rubbing my eyes and stretching each limb. Once I’m done and take a look at my surroundings, I irritably scoff at the clear skies and aim a dirty look toward the ceiling.
I’m starting to get the idea that Cordelia knows some people in high places—and, with a more timid glance toward the floor, I consider that it might be someone in a verylowplace.
Scrambling to stand, I stumble to the back doors and forcibly push them open just as I did last night. Except this time, there isn’t water pelting down in a thick curtain, and the dead trees don’t look as sinister.
There isn’t any evidence of the brutal thunder storm from the night before.
In the clear light of day, the ground doesn’t even look burned from the lightning that hit.
I’m positive it struck the ground no more than fifty feet from where I’m standing on the porch. Right in the middle of the cobblestone path leading into the garden.
As I stare at the back garden in perfect condition—minus the peculiar mud and ossified plants—horror and confusion battle for control. With every second I stare at the spot that should show some sign of burns, my heartrate speeds up.
The gunky soil looks exactly the same and there aren’t any puddles. Not even a goddamn snail, which is always a tell-tale sign of a precipitation. The paths are worn and cracking, but it’s no worse than it was yesterday. The ground isn’t splintering from the strike, and even this dirt would blacken from the force. Gaping in confusion, it looks untouched except from the hand of time.
The dreadful cocktail of emotions swirl around each other until they morph into anxiety. I’m on the verge of a breakdown, loneliness draping over me like a familiar blanket, when the distant sound of tires on cobblestone pulls my attention back to the front of the house.
With one more glance to the back garden, I follow the wrap-around porch to the other side of the house. I never closed the gate yesterday, a little apprehensive to touch it again. My car is haphazardly parked in the entrance, so the small red car with the top rolled down pulls to a stop behind mine.
Startling me, Hexate wraps herself around my shin and peers out to see our new visitor.
Realizing I’m only in a tank top and linen shorts, having never put my sweater back on, I wrap my arms around my body and wait with reluctant curiosity. There’s a cold chill to the air, lingering in the late winter morning, but I don’t want to leave as someone is getting here.
It’s not due to any warm and welcoming feelings for the stranger, but a new, raw protectiveness I have for the inn and my ancestors. Somewhere between the lightning striking and my emotional breakdown, this place started to feel like mine. No one is taking that away from me now.
Most of my hostility starts to melt away as soon as the witch steps out of her car. Step is a little too gracious of a word for the way she practically bounces out of the vehicle in a little chaotic bundle of dark red hair. Her purse falls from her lap and she quickly bends to grab it. Then she pats out her short, dark purple knit dress paired with tights and a lace long-sleeve shirt. The tunic silhouette isn’t form fitting, but it settles along her soft, full curves perfectly.
I can’t deny she’s captivating like a wildfire.
A large, black bear comes tumbling down the street after her, not far behind the car. With an affectionate pat and kiss to the bear’s head, the woman turns back to the house.
When her head lifts and she sees me standing on the porch, a friendly smile pulls at her lips. Her short red curls—the color of blooming blood roses—are styled in an afro and contrast her rich ebony skin, making her glow under the morning sun as if she radiates warmth and light everywhere she goes.
Not all Hearth Witches have red hair, but it is common enough to make the assumption when you see it. That’s not what has me convinced.
There’s a friendly, inviting nature to her that doesn’t come easily to me. Or most people with spirit magic. Hearth Witches, on the other hand, are caretakers. Their skills are versatile, so there’s a variety of jobs that they’re drawn to. No one is limited to careers based on their abilities—but you can always count on them to make you feel right at home. Even when they are in your home.
“Hi!” She calls and walks toward the steps.
The bear follows closely behind, clearly observing their surroundings. It’s hard to guess what someone else’s familiar is thinking, but hers seems more interested in the property than Hexate or me.
I offer a small wave, not making a move otherwise. That seems like enough of an invitation for her because her speed picks up at my acknowledgment. With a small skip to each step, she bounds up the stairs and offers me her hand.
“Hi,” she says again. Her voice is smooth and rich, and her smile is brighter up close.
Slipping my hand into hers, I notice the pretty gold ring she’s wearing. It looks like a family crest—something more common in wolf packs than witch covens.
“Hello,” I finally greet her properly. “Uh, welcome?”
With an airy laugh, she releases my hand and explains, “I’m Rowyn Connor. I heard your call… Well, I didn’t understand what it was until my grandf—”
“Wait,” I cut her off, lifting an open palm toward her. “What do you mean, ‘my call’?”
Her eyes catch on my hand, and the grin almost falters. In a gentle, confused tone she asks, “Didn’t you cast a beckoning spell? For a coven?”
