CHAPTER ONE
Malcolm Wellesley removed his motorcycle helmet and set it on the front of his bike. The black giant schnauzer sitting in his sidecar growled softly as it scanned the dark and empty street and then looked up at him. Twilight had just passed, and the air was filled with a natural magic that soothed his soul.
He ruffled the dog’s fur and flopped his folded ears affectionately. “It’s all right, boy.” Hades was a warlock familiar, and he had been with Malcolm since Malcolm had turned sixteen. Having a familiar was one of the few perks resulting from his warlock heritage. Hades kept him calm, kept him focused, and had even helped a warlock like him with his spells.
Half-warlock, he corrected himself.
Only his father’s side of their family had magic. His mother was a non-magical human or a “non-magic,” but she’d achieved far more in her life than any spellcasters he knew aside from his father. Dr. Sarah York was a marine biologist who had made some of the most amazing scientific discoveries about sea life in the last fifty years.
Malcolm climbed off his bike and unfastened Hades’s harness. The schnauzer leaped out of the sidecar and nudged Malcolm’s knee in a silent let’s go. Hades was right. He couldn’t put this off any longer. He had received a summons from his father yesterday, and it wasn’t wise to ignore it. His father was an old school warlock. When he sent a summons, it came in the form of a flock of ravens that swarmed Malcolm’s apartment in New York.
Because he lived among humans who knew nothing of the paranormal world, the appearance of a dozen ravens who all spoke with a man’s deep commanding voice was problematic, to say the least. The only way to get them to leave was to tell the ravens he accepted the summons. Thankfully, only Mrs. Cutter, the elderly woman next door, had heard all the ruckus, and he’d convinced her he’d had his TV on too loud.
Four hours and two hundred miles later, he was here. Malcolm approached one of the finest Greek revival townhouses in Boston’s prestigious Louisburg Square. His father’s family had lived in this city since the Salem witch trials. The Wellesley family tree was as old as the foundations of some of the earliest buildings in Boston.
The dark blue door of his parents’ home was painted with silver stars, the only hint that perhaps this house, unlike the others in the square, belonged to a magical family. Malcolm’s magical blood allowed him to see what a regular human could not. Silvery gossamer threads of protective wards and other spells draped around the front of the townhouse. Some of the enchantments were as old as the house. Others were newer, as his father had added adjustments or additions in recent years.
Malcolm gripped the silver knocker shaped like a lion’s head and rapped it against the door. A moment later, the door opened and he was face-to-face with his mother. She was an ageless beauty even at fifty-seven, with kind eyes and the warmest smile to accompany her big heart. Growing up, he had never realized just how lucky he had been to be raised by her, but as a man he had come to learn that not everyone had an idyllic childhood.
“Mac!” His mother threw her arms around him, hugging him. She smelled faintly of peppermint, and the memories that smell carried were always good ones. He had been away from home far too long. Or at least, away from her far too long, he silently amended. Whether it was wise to see his father right now was yet to be determined.
“Honey, what—” She looked him over like she was judging a show dog, frowning as she saw his worn jeans, flannel shirt, and his biker boots. “Cutting lumber in the woods again, I see?” she teased. She knew he loved being out in the woods, and that he felt most comfortable when he was dressed for it. He wasn’t the bespoke-suit sort of man. His father, on the other hand, always looked like he had stepped out of a fashion magazine, with perfectly tailored coats and pants, and ties that matched whatever he wore yet somehow were never boring. He wouldn’t be caught dead without his Italian leather shoes. Sometimes Mac wondered if he and his father were even related.
“No wood chopping, Mom, I promise,” Malcolm replied with a chuckle.
Hades barged through the doorway, jumping up on his mother with an excited bark. The dog was a big softie around women and children, and he adored Malcolm’s mother. When he’d shown up outside Malcolm’s bedroom door on his sixteenth birthday, he’d been nothing but a tiny black pup. He’d taken one look at Malcolm’s mother and been in love ever since.
“Aww, Hades. You’re such a good boy, aren’t you?” She cooed and hugged the big dog before she looked up at Malcolm. “Did your father?—?”
“Summon me? Yes.” Malcolm stepped inside, and his mother closed the door. “Mom, we’ve talked about this. Get him to email me. The flock of ravens is a bit much.”
“He sent the ravens?” His mother let out a long suffering sigh. “I will email you myself next time if I have to.” She gestured for him to follow her deeper into the house. Even though he had many bad memories with magic, he had only good memories about this house and growing up here.
The old townhouse had been modernized over the years, and due to his father’s talents, the interior was doubled in size thanks to an extension spell. The more traditional warlock tastes were also present. Silver chandeliers lit by bewitched candles, and the occasional raven fluttering toward the top of the ceiling, and portraits of the Wellesley ancestors who moved about their frames and had been known to talk on occasion, though generally they were a somber, quiet lot.
His mother’s touches were visible in the comfortable couches and the cheery paint colors in the rooms where she spent most of her time. There was also the presence of technology, much to his father’s dismay. Magic and science didn’t typically mix well. Cell phones and computers tended to glitch in the presence of any kind of spell and even at the touch of a witch or warlock more often than not. The same went for magic when too much technology was around. His mother’s love for cooking appliances was a constant frustration for his father when trying to cast spells in the kitchen.
More than once, Reginald, Malcolm’s father, had tried to pick up something from the printer in Sarah’s office only to have the printer start spitting out paper with random text on it. Sarah always took it all in stride, but Malcolm had grown up listening to his father grumble about printers being powered by black magic.
“Where is dad?” Malcolm asked.
“He’s in the kitchen,” his mother said as she led him down the hall. Fashionable wall sconces lit by magic illuminated the darker parts of the hall. As he passed by one of the portraits, a particularly grim looking warlock wearing a stuffy black outfit with a white lace collar, sneezed.
“Bless you, Septimus,” his mother murmured to the old warlock.
“My thanks, my lady,” the warlock muttered and doffed his hat with a half bow. Many of the ancestors in the paintings didn’t approve of a non-magical person in the house, but Septimus seemed to have a soft spot for Malcolm’s mother.
Malcolm stepped into the kitchen and spotted his father by the espresso machine. He cursed as purple and green sparks shot out of the machine into his cup instead of coffee. His father’s familiar, a sleek black cat named Onyx, hissed and batted at the contraption with one paw.
“Darling!” Reginald bellowed, unaware that his wife had just stepped into the kitchen behind him.
“I’m right here, Reggie.” She winked at Malcolm. “Let me…” She shooed her husband out of the way and instantly the coffee machine started filling the little cup appropriately with coffee.
“How many times have I told you to wait five minutes after a spell before using the coffee machine?”
“It was just a simple sorting charm,” Reginald insisted with a scowl.
“The coffee machine doesn’t care what kind of spell, sweetheart.” His mother began resetting the machine by turning it off and on.
