My senses prickled when I felt the magic radiating from the place.
Bo pressed his nose against the car window. “I smell tea and misery.”
Samuel rolled his eyes, parked, and killed the engine. “Just in case it wasn’t clear, we’re here to ask questions, not start a war.”
I couldn’t help but feel his warning was directed at me.
“When have I ever started a war?” I asked defensively.
He just looked at me.
“That was one time,” I protested. “Okay, twice. But there were extenuating circumstances.”
He sighed and climbed out of the car. I followed, Bo on my heels.
Samuel pressed the buzzer on the gate pillar.
A curt voice issued from the speaker. “State your identity and business.”
“Samuel Hawthorne and Abigail West, here to see Melody Flowers.”
There was a pause. The gate opened with an ominous creak.
The grounds were immaculate, hedges trimmed into severe geometric shapes and pristinelawn devoid of stray leaves. A stone fountain sat empty and silent in the center of the courtyard. Not a single flower bloomed in the whole place.
All in all, it was as cheerful as a vampire’s tax audit.
The front door opened before we could knock. A young witch with a pointed hat, glasses, and a no-nonsense expression appeared in the doorway, a tablet in hand.
“Mr. Hawthorne. Miss West.” She dipped her head briskly. “Miss Flowers is expecting you.” Her gaze dropped to Bo. Her expression grew guarded. “You didn’t mention the dog. Is he a familiar?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“No,” Samuel said.
“I might be part werewolf,” Bo contributed.
The witch squinted. “Which part?”
Bo eventually got put down as a service animal on the visitor’s list and we proceeded inside the building, the Husky protesting under his breath.
The foyer was all dark wood paneling and velvet drapes in deep greens and burgundy. Portraits of witches who appeared to have been weaned on pickle juice stared down at us from the walls. The air smelled of dried herbs, old books, and something sharper.
Magic layered so thick it made my wolf’s hackles rise.
Witches in the main hallway stopped their conversations to stare as we walked past them, a few whispering behind their hands with evident surprise. One elderly witch clutched her pearls like I might bite them off her neck.
Bo’s nails clicked nervously on the hardwood floor. “Why is everyone looking at us?”
“Werewolves don’t usually visit Coven Headquarters,” Samuel said quietly.
“I wonder why,” I muttered, catching a particularly venomous glare from a witch with silver hair and a face like she’d been sucking lemons for decades.
A black cat sat on a side table and watched our procession with unblinking yellow eyes as we approached a sweeping staircase. The hairs rose on my nape when I felt the animal’s stare bore into my neck. My wolf growled softly.
I slowed and looked over my shoulder.
The cat had vanished.
