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One.

And I have no fucking idea where mine is.

I’ve tried. Every potion I could concoct, every divination method approved of by the Order of Warlocks, and all of the magical theory I’ve read about did nothing. I spoke with the handful of brother warlocks I have from my home order, and they all seemed to agree: I just needed to wait until Fate led her to me.

I couldn’t do that. Not when there was another way.

The hidden witch town of Spellbrook isn’t far from Weston, although a human could spend their entire life searching for it and never stumble upon it. Spellbrook isn’t on any map. Stop at your local gas station and no one there will have heard of it. It’s protected. Roads bend around it. Travelers turn around when they pass it, as though they forgot which way they were meant to go. Even supernatural creatures generally ignore the town unless they’re invited inside.

Warlocks are never invited, but that didn’t stop me. I went anyway, careful not to use much of my own magic while I was there. Let them think I was a male witch or a vamp. Unlike the predatory supes—the vampires and the shifters—witches and warlocks don’t have the senses to tell what kind of supe someone is. By visiting the town, they would only know I’m not a regular mortal, and so long as I was careful, they’d never guess that I was a warlock or that I went to Spellbrook to steal from them.

It was easier than I expected. I just walked into the library, used a small locator spell to help find the specific grimoire I needed, then took it off the shelf. One precise tear later and I walked out of the library, whistling casually with the love spell in the pocket of my black jeans.

I smirk a little as I pull a match out of the box, striking it against the side.

If this spell works, I’ll know the name of my one true mate. It’s designed to pop into my brain, as if I always knew her, forming a tie between us. It’ll tug me toward her, the yank constant and eternal until it’s replaced by a finalized mate bond. I’ll recognize her anywhere. Her scent will call to me as though I am one of those animalistic supes. And, if I do this right, she’ll understand instinctively that I am hers.

I light one candle, then the next. I feed the vial of my blood to one of the flames. It turns red, and a shiver runs down my spine. My hands tremble as I weigh out the rosemary and sprinkle the exact amount on top of the second candle. A pinch from the bag of catnip is next.

That done, I reach for the spell. It’s written in Greek, and though my grasp on the language is rusty since I left school a decade ago, defecting from my home order so that I could search for my one true mate, it’s obvious what this spell is. It’s a treaty to Hecate herself—the witches’ goddess—to aid the caster in finding their heart’s desire.

It’s supposed to be a love spell. However, I’ve played around with enough magic incantations to know that it’s easy to make a mistake and foul things up. That’s why I have my potion. If there’s any sign that the magic will backfire, I just have to pour the potion on the candles and the spell should nullify.

Should being the key word there. There isn’t much research done on what happens when a spellcaster mixes warlock and witch magic, but I’m desperate enough to risk it.

Just like I was desperate enough to risk pissing off a nearby coven…

The spell is three paragraphs long. I’m reading the last line when the electricity in my house goes out. One red flame, one orange flame… their flickering light is all I have left to see by as I spit out the last word, then leap to my feet so I can peer out the kitchen window.

It’s not raining. There’s no storm outside to waylay the mortal’s panhandling holiday. It’s past sunset, darkness creeping in, but it seems like the entire first floor of my home is growing thick with shadows.

Is it the spell? Or something else?

My hackles raise a second later when I hear my front door swing open.

My locked front door.

It blows inward with a boom and a crash, and for a moment, I’m frozen in place as I think about who is powerful enough to kill my lights and break through my locked door. No one in Weston knows that I’m a supe. There’s no reason why a violent, powerful supernatural would hunt me down⁠—

Hunt.

Shit.

Witch hunters get their name because they target witches. Fanatic mortals who know that supes are real, they target the most numerous—and, okay, the weakest—supernatural race for ridiculous reasons. The existence of witch hunters is why so many covens live in charmed towns that are warded to keep them out.

They know better than to target an order of warlocks. But I no longer live among my order. I’m on my own, and if a pair of hunters figured out I have magic, they might have mistaken me for a male witch.

I start to recite an offensive spell to protect myself when, suddenly, I’m being thrown backward. The orb I was conjuring bursts with a soft popping sound as my back slams into the wall of the kitchen to my left.

My head cracks. I see stars for a second, then blink them away before attempting to push away from the wall.

I can’t.

I can’t.

I’m trapped. Stuck. My hands are splayed against the wall, my feet a couple of inches off of the kitchen floor. Magic is keeping me in place, only it’s not my magic.

I spit out a curse as three women walk purposefully into my kitchen.