I couldn’t help the giggle that slipped from my lips.
A loud creak sounded nearby, and my good mood soured instantly. I shot a glare at the house. Creep was perched on a windowsill, staring out at us with something like longing.
Should I feel bad that the house whose sole magical purpose was, supposedly, to make life easier for a Briar Coven witch and her mate was now missing out on the small connections we were making out of her earshot?
Probably.
Did I?
Hells no.
Creep should’ve thought about that before siding with my childhood bully.
“I think Creep’s missing you already,” Blaise said gently.
My lips pressed together. “Creep will be just fine.” I stepped toward the tent. “Besides, I really need to start brewing—like,yesterday—if I’m going to have any chance of getting these recipes right.”
Blaise caught my shoulders, gently steering me away from the bundle of camping gear and toward the pile of cauldrons and ingredients instead.
“Well then,” he said easily, “I’ll sort the tent. And you can get started on this magic candy of yours.”
Chapter 13. Ambrose
I’d spent the entire night cleaning the house after Isadora’s tantrum, doing the best I could with what remained. By morning, it looked practically bare, anything broken beyond repair finally gone.
The trash cans outside were overflowing with things past salvaging, at least a dozen trash bags piled around them, stuffed full of debris.
The small garage to the side of the house held another collection of broken items—things I wasfairlyconfident I could fix myself if I managed to find the right tools and maybe an online video.
Yawning, I cooked her a breakfast of stale waffles and bacon. The smell alone was enough to make my stomach rumble, and not for the first time, I wondered if Isadora really would let me starve to death.
The floorboards creaked above me.
I hurried, stacking the bacon onto the waffles and grabbing a glass just in time. I’d barely finished pouring Isadora’s morning orange juice when the kitchen door swung open with enough force to make the glass in my hand quiver.
This morning, Isadora wore a sheer night gown, the dropped sleeves ringed with feathers, paired with matching slippers and a silk headband. She reminded me of the feisty heroine from one of those old ’50s films—though feisty was probably an understatement. I didn’t need to loosen my senses to feel the rage still rolling off her.
She barely spared me a glance as she slung herself dramatically into a chair, glaring at the stack of waffles in front of her.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Isadora?” I asked, hoping for a task that might alleviate whatever was bothering her.
She ignored me, poking through the food with her fork instead, her lips curling in quiet disgust.
The silence stretched on, heavy and uncomfortable, broken only by the occasional scrape of cutlery, until her head snapped up suddenly, tilting toward the window at the sound of an approaching vehicle.
My shadows coiled instinctively around me, Isadora’s voice humming in my mind—You’ll protect me from harm, Ambrose—like a command pressed against my ear.
Then I remembered the phone call.
Realization hit, and my shadows fell away at once. This had to be the person she’d summoned.
Gods help them,I thought.
Isadora moved with deliberate slowness, pausing by the small mirror on the wall to adjust her headband and her scowl. By the time she finally drifted toward the living room, the front door was creaking open.
A woman stood in the doorway, silky black hair cascading down her shoulders. Her arms were crossed, her posture rigid, as if being summoned here was the greatest inconvenience of her day. The look of cool indifference on her face was a near-perfect echo of Isadora’s.
I couldn’t help but wonder—had Isadora ever mentioned having a daughter?
