Cassia stood, swaying only slightly, and raised her glass. “Pact time. Official. Binding. Possibly legally questionable.”
“Nothing we do is legally questionable. We’re witches. We operate on a different legal framework entirely. It’s called ‘vibes and precedent.’”
“That’s absolutely not how law works.”
“It’s how witch law works. Different jurisdiction.” Junie grabbed her glass. “Come on. Pact. We’re doing this. I’ve been waiting three days to make this official.”
Dahlia and Narla rose more gracefully. Avine dislodged Marzipan—who gave her a look of deep betrayal that promised future retribution—and joined the circle. Their magic hummed where they stood close, the bond that had formed at first meeting vibrating with anticipation.
Cassia began, voice mock-solemn. “We hereby swear to help Avine restore this ridiculous haunted inn to its former glory.”
Dahlia added, “To protect her from Elder meddling as much as humanly—or witchly—possible.”
Narla continued, “To tell her the truth, even when it’s hard.”
Junie grinned. “And to absolutely, mercilessly tease her about the Alpha until she admits she wants to climb him like a tree.”
“I don’t want to?—”
They clinked glasses. Magic sparked where the crystal touched—their combined power acknowledging a bond deeper than alcohol and laughter. The connection anchored into permanence. Real.
Avine drank, and the rightness that spread through her had nothing to do with the wine.
They left around midnight, in a flurry of hugs and promises and Cassia accidentally calling down a small rainstorm because she’d had one too many cocktails and her magic got “enthusiastic.” The brief downpour soaked Junie, who retaliated by turning Cassia’s hair temporarily purple—“It’ll fade by morning, probably”—and the resulting chaos spilled out onto the porch in a tangle of laughter and mock outrage.
Dahlia pressed one last pastry into Avine’s hands—aCourage Croissant, for “whenever you need it”—and Narla left behind a single candle that she said would burn whenever Avine needed light and company. Glimmer gave Avine one last approving blink before disappearing into Junie’s hair, and Marzipan deigned to rub against her ankles once before being scooped up by Dahlia.
Gust swooped past Avine’s head with a dramatic cry that might have been goodbye, or might have been a declaration of future mischief. With Cassia, it was hard to tell what her familiar had learned from her.
Avine stood on the porch, wrapped in the blanket she’d brought, watching their taillights disappear down the cliff road. The stars stretched overhead, dense and bright, unobscured by the city lights she’d lived under for two decades.
The parlor was a disaster—empty bottles, crumbs, candle wax dripped onto surfaces she’d have to clean tomorrow. Glitter covered everything from a spell Junie had cast to “improve the ambiance” halfway through the evening. The banner still hung above the fireplace, slightly crooked now. WELCOME TO CHAOS.
She should clean. She should go to bed. She should do something productive instead of standing here in the dark, replaying the evening in her head—the laughter, the tears, the moment when four near-strangers had seen her broken pieces and chosen to keep her anyway.
You’re allowed to want things, Avine. Even things that scare you.
Avine laughed—quiet, private, still slightly disbelieving—and went inside to face the chaos.
EIGHT
AVINE
Two weeks into her time at the inn, the sound pulled Avine from sleep at 3:47 a.m.
Not a crash. Not the settling creaks she’d grown used to. This was deeper—a groan that seemed to rise from the bones of the building itself. The kind of noise old houses made when they were hurting.
She sat up in bed, heart pounding. The Full Moon Suite was cold, far colder than it should have been with the wards humming along the walls. Her breath misted in the air.
Wrong. This is wrong.
She threw back the covers and grabbed her phone, the screen’s glow harsh against the darkness. No alerts. No messages. The time staring back at her and that terrible, low rumble pulsing through the floorboards.
Her fuzzy socks slid on the hardwood as she padded toward the door, still wearing the faded band T-shirt and flannel pants she’d claimed from her ex-husband’s side of the closet during the divorce. Spite pajamas. Comfortable spite pajamas.
The hallway was darker than it should have been. The spelled sconces that usually glowed soft blue through the night had gonedim, their light flickering weakly as she passed. One of them sparked and died completely.
Not good.
