Silas narrowed his eyes. The man moved with the careful precision of one who’d seen too much chaos—steady hands, hollow stare.
Word traveled among the dead—swifter, oftentimes, than among the living. Silas had already learned that the doctor had briefly worn a uniform once, though never at the front. He’d traded battlefields for those places where the earth turned wrathful, tending to the wounded ruined by nature. That was work Silas could honor; any soul who saved lives earned his regard.
But his dereliction of duty—be it in a soldier or a surgeon—was unacceptable.
Why was the surgeon here in Solstice Springs and not in the field, saving lives? Silas had been a field medic at both the First and Second Battles of Bull Run and at Antietam. He’d been overwhelmed by blood, had seen too many limbs obliterated by bullets, shrapnel that pierced chests and stomachs, deep puncture wounds, and wide slashes from bayonets. He’d never once considered abdicating his post.
Fury, deep and primal, rose within what was left of his ripped soul. He’d lived, and died, on the battlefield, and he’d spent the past one-hundred and sixty years and more relieving every moment—thinking about what he could’ve done differently, how he could’ve saved more lives. But this man, young but old enough to know better, hadstopped. He’d run.
Yet Silas recognized the weariness clinging to him like powder smoke—the guilt that never slept. It was the same burden Silas had carried from the field to the grave.
A sudden squawk drew their attention. Lila pointed toward Lantern Beach. Reggie, the turkey, perched on the massive log overlooking the lake’s stone beach. “Someone should have roasted that bird years ago,” she said. Then, with a tilt of her head, she spoke again. “Isn’t that the dancer?”
Silas followed her gaze. Miss Wren was now all bright eyes and restless grace. The little wild thing he’d watched playing with her friends had grown into a woman.
“Do you remember that wish she made as a child?” Lila mused. “The one she threw into the bonfire?”
He didn’t. There had been many wishes over many years. “What wish? And when?”
“Her mom had died a few weeks before Halloween and she was living between Luna and her father?”
That man. Useless creature. Silas nodded.
“That year, she was twelve I think, I watched her write her wish… Wait, let me think… ‘I wish for someone who will always love me, who’ll stay … and never leave.’”
Silas shifted, uncomfortable. Miss Wren didn’t have the easiest time growing up.
“She hasn’t found that person yet, and she’s running from something,” Lila murmured, sounding perceptive—an act so rare that Silas almost applauded.
“She’s fascinated by the tragic doctor,” Lila murmured. He watched as her gaze landed on the doctor-soldier. Even after nearly two centuries, he recognized that look—the quickened breath, the sudden flush on her pretty cheeks.
Silas leaned back, folding his arms over his chest, and frowned. The air hung heavy, thick, as it always did before a storm. He shifted uneasily on the bench, unease creeping under his skin. Something was coming.
Life, because there was life after death, was about to get very interesting this Summerween season.
* * *
Later that same day, in the kitchen of her godmother’s hundred-year-old house, standing on the foundations of the original home built by Luna’s ancestors—proud founders of Solstice Springs, one of the bunch who fled Salem for being too dramatic—Wren eyed Luna, not trusting the calculating look in her eye.
“Darling,” Luna said, pouring wine into two coffee cups, the old-school landline clamped under her chin. Morrigan—who technically lived two doors down but regularly conducted patrols of the neighboring houses in search of snacks and idolization—wove between her legs like he owned both properties and everyone in them. “Check on supper, please.”
Like everything else that wasn’t H-Town-related, Luna took an erratic approach to cooking. Wren walked across to the stove where something bubbled in a pot, and warily lifted the lid. It could be pasta or eye of newt. You never knew with Luna.
Thankfully, it looked and smelled like a fairly decent stew. Not Luna’s work, then, but probably Marsha’s, Luna’s best friend and personal assistant. Behind every successful woman was another one standing in the shadows, and Marsha—quiet, studious, a little frumpy—was Luna’s right and left hand. Probably her spine, too.
Wren dug out a spoon and dipped it into the stew, sighing at the depth of its flavor. “Rice or potatoes, Luna?” she asked, knowing that if she didn’t make either, they’d be eating plain stew.
Luna waved her question away. “Anything, darling.”
Wren started to peel potatoes, half-listening to Luna telephonically haranguing a colleague about an upcoming council vote. Wren had grown up half in awe, half in mild embarrassment of her godmother. She was black lace, velvet shawls, and plum lipstick one day, and sharp suits, pulled back hair, and business the next. Some weeks her hair was a riot of multi-colored streaks, the next month it was back to its bold white, shimmering like early morning mist on the lake. Nobody knew what version of Luna you’d get on any given day—sorcerer or CEO—and Wren knew she liked putting people off-balance, to keep them guessing. She smelled of both Chanel Nº 5 and sage, tinted by ambition, and her laugh—big, witchy, and very wicked—always hung around long after she’d left a room.
But more than anything else, Luna Merriweather was sharp. The kind of sharp that sliced through resident objections and bureaucratic red tape. She could charm birds out of trees and, more difficult, grant money out of state officials to fund another one of her “brilliantly spooky” ideas—her words, not theirs.
H-Town thrived because of her. Every pumpkin light, every haunted tour, every over-the-top festival had Luna’s fingerprints all over it. She’d boldly and openly called herself a “part-time witch, full-time visionary” and nobody had a reason, or the guts, to disagree. Only Luna could pull off being both a civic leader and an occasional witch who frequently threatened to hex people who didn’t fall into line. It was Luna who’d made this strange little town hum with life, and she was universally adored. And feared. These days, Wren simply thought of her as amazing.
“I’m so happy to have you home, darling child,” Luna said, banging the phone back into its cradle. She rested her chin in the palm of her hand and grunted when Morrigan hopped up and landed in her lap. To be fair, he did weigh as much as a chunky toddler. A half-dozen thick silver bracelets fell down her arm.
Luna looked past Wren and shook her head. “Not now, Cedric darling, I’m busy.”
