C H A P T E R O NE
KILLIAN
P ower burst from his hands, turning his fingertips black and rather…crispy. Stalking over to his freezer, he grabbed one of his many ice packs. The sizzle as ice met skin made him cringe. “If anyone in this world still made wands…” His familiar, a small black kitten appropriately named Tiny, yawned and started cleaning her paw.
“Shut it, cat.”
“If I were a cat, perhaps I would ‘shut it.’ As I am not, go fuck yourself, Killian. You are a terrible witch, and hopelessly incompetent.” With her tail in the air, Tiny pranced away, heading for a patch of sunlight in the front window.
“You’re supposed to be helping me with this shite. Or have you forgotten the role of a familiar?”
From the other room, Tiny called, “Start acting like a witch and maybe I’ll start acting like a familiar.”
Killian sank down at the kitchen table, the ice pack numbing his fingers as he ached for something to dull the pain of failure deep inside him. Every bloody day he tried, and every day, he either injured himself, set fire to something, or—on the worst days—set off a small explosion in the woods behind his property.
The knock at the door startled him, and the ice pack landed on the kitchen tile with a dull thunk.
Not now.
But whoever wanted to see him wasn’t taking no for an answer. Or even waiting for him to reach the front room. The lock flipped open and the door creaked as sharp footsteps rapped across his hardwood floors. Killian’s fingers closed over the silver and iron cuff he’d left on the counter, and he barely managed to snap it around his wrist before Beatrix Pearce, head of the London Coven entered the room.
“Torturing yourself again, Killian?” She tutted softly as she narrowed her ice blue eyes at the cuff and his blackened fingers. With a few whispered words, Beatrix draped her hands over his, and the burning pain faded almost instantly as his skin mended.
Stepping back, she tucked a long strand of white hair back into her bun. “Better?”
“Yes, High Priestess. Thank you,” Killian said. He stopped himself before he asked her what she was doing way out here in the Tonbridge countryside. It had been years since Killian had been willing to live in a city—among people. Not since he’d lost control and killed the vampire he’d been falling in love with.
“Your thoughts betray you, witch,” Beatrix said. “Perhaps, since I came all this way, you could offer me some tea? Or…something stronger?”
He hated that word. Witch. He’d begged Beatrix more than once to call him a warlock, but Beatrix insisted that was not the proper term and she would not be using it. Trudging to his stove, he lit the burner and added water to the kettle. “To what do I owe this pleasure, High Priestess?”
“You’d best control your tone, young man. You may be one of the most powerful witches of an age, but I can still give you a thrashing.” Beatrix examined her nails as Killian opened a tin of black tea and withdrew two bags.
The act of preparing the tea centered him a bit, and by the time he brought the mugs and the sugar bowl he knew Beatrix would want to the table, his emotions were almost under control. At the last moment, he snagged a bottle of bourbon and set it in front of her as well. “My apologies. It has not been an easy day. But that is no excuse for my rudeness.”
“No, it is not.” Beatrix added two spoonfuls of sugar to her tea along with a healthy pour of bourbon, stirred daintily, and then sighed. “You know of the Witches’ Ball and coven meeting in America?”
“Of course. I’m not that much of a fuck-up, High Priestess.”
She snorted, then touched her bun again, making sure every hair was in place. “We are not at the coven house. You may call me Beatrix. A one-time dispensation only.”
This couldn’t be good. Beatrix was well over seventy years old, and some of the other coven members believed her to be closer to two hundred and seventy. She did not bend the rules, did not take to casual conversation. She also did not make house calls. She summoned.
After a sip of the steaming liquid, she set the mug down and withdrew an envelope from the pocket of her skirt. “It is a great honor to receive an invitation. I have attended a dozen times. But this year, the letter that arrived was not addressed to me.”
Killian choked on his tea as she slid the thick, cream-colored envelope across the table. “Are you having a laugh? No one would invite me. Not unless they had a death wish.”
But there on the front, in thick, gold embossing, was his name. Killian Wade, Witch.
Of course they’d include that word.
“You should open it,” Beatrix said. “Ignoring such a summons can be unwise.”
Killian pushed his chair back and stood. “No. I won’t touch it.”
Her chuckle contained no mirth. “That will end badly for you, Killian.”
“Being among other witches will end badly for me, Beatrix. Or have you forgotten what I did?” Killian could still hear the screams in his nightmares. Shadows flickered in the corners of the room, and the cuff around his wrist burned his skin as his magic fought to escape.
