“And you’re sulking because a smoking-hot witch is willing to help you?” Hayes questioned.
“I’m not fucking sulking.” I slammed the glass down onto the counter. “I’m drinking to get drunk.”
“Most people wait until at least lunch to have their first drink.”
“Thanks, I’ll take that into consideration next time I decide to day drink.” I motioned for a refill.
“What the fuck is she getting out of helping you? Because I know it’s not the presence of your company.” The asshole laughed, and I resisted the urge to punch him in the face. See, I knew how friendship worked.
“I’m helping her with a spirit problem.”
“Interesting.” He busied himself behind the bar.
“Out with it,” I growled. This conversation was putting me in a piss-poor mood. I came here to enjoy my drink, not talk about my fucking feelings. I’d done enough of that recently.
“It’s just—I’ve heard rumblings. A girl was found mutilated in the town square this morning. Her throat slit.” Hayes leaned across the bar to whisper, “Magic is thrumming under this whole damn town.”
Another victim? Shit.
“You feel it too?” My voice dropped an octave.
“Something is coming. Or it might already be here,” Hayes said in a dramatic end-of-the-world voice. But he really might not be too far off. “I’m not saying the witch isn’t helping you, but the timing of everything is suspicious.”
My teeth ground together at Hayes’s warning because history had a way of repeating itself.
The whole town was fucking crazy. People laughed with excitement, walking the streets where a girl was brutally murdered just this morning. But that was what drew people to Twisted Spires. The dark and twisted.
I knocked on Lyra’s ridiculously ornate front door. Humans and their expensive shit. I craned my neck, trying to get a better look at the entire house. The unfathomable wealth these families possessed was nothing compared to the magic that flowed through their veins.
“Hello,” I hollered. But no one answered. I turned the doorknob and found it unlocked. Two girls had been murdered, and she still couldn’t bother to lock the front door.Lyra would, without a doubt, be the first to die in a horror film.
I walked down the hallway, not caring that my ratty boots tracked filth through the home. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason this house felt more inviting than Devin’s, but it did. Maybe it was because I’d never been tortured in their basement.
Pans clanked together and I followed the sound to find Lyra wearing an apron and not much else. The kitchen looked as if a tornado had swept through, leaving only destruction in its wake. Dishes filled the sink while open bags of ingredients overtook most of the counter space.
The scene before me was chaotic and ridiculous, and I watched in awe as Lyra bounced around from the island to the counter.
“Has everyone in this town lost their mind?” I asked, taking in the beautiful madness.
She jumped; eyes widening. “Grey,” she brought her hand to her chest, “you scared the shit out of me.”
“You left the door unlocked.”
“Opps.” She shrugged.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Baking for the cinnamon festival,” she singsonged.
“The what?”
“The. Cinnamon. Festival,” she said each word slowly like it would help make sense. “I completely forgot about making the cinnamon pies.”
I looked around the counter to find a dozen pies covering the large kitchen island. “Emory promised to help me, but after our little spat this morning, she made some lame excuse and bailed.” She sighed, continuing to mix the ingredients.
The oven beeped, and she bent over, removing a pie from the oven. Her shorts rode up, and I couldn’t help myself. My palm smacked against the curve of her ass, hard enough to leave a stinging sensation in my hand.
She yelped, smacking me with a pair of oven mitts.
