2. Lewis

CHAPTER 2

LEWIS

A fter my last lecture for the day, I toss the laptop and notebook into my backpack as fast as I can without drawing attention for inhuman behavior. How could this happen? And with a witch, for heaven's sake. This tiny town always makes Denver and me feel so welcome, and I let my guard down.

For the first time in over fifty years. Last time Anjelica found us, it cost my brother his mate—and almost his life. Never will I permit that to happen again. Nothing is more important than staying out of her reach. Nothing.

Hitting the light switch off, I shove the door open and walk into the brisk Vermont fall outdoors. Gold and bronze leaves dance over the ground, partnered by the ever-cooling breeze from the north. The campus's large oaks scatter their leaves like glitter. The scent of the coming first snowfall laces the crisp air.

A minute later, I round the sciences building and into the parking lot. The 1968 black Mustang I bought the day it released sits waiting, hood up and chrome rims glinting in the fading rays of the afternoon sun. The only thing I love more than my brother is this car. Unlocking the driver's side door, I crack it open, throwing my backpack into the passenger's seat.

The comforting sound of the deep rumble of the engine drums out the noise in my head. Thoughts of being found and having to flee settle somewhat as I turn down University Drive. Turning the wheel, I wind through the houses and then down Main Street. People are walking, huddled in their coats and warm boots, anticipating the first fall of snow that I can smell days earlier than they can. It's coming, a few days away now.

I roll to a stop at the last set of traffic lights before Vermont Route and twist the knob on the radio, filling the car with static until I hit the right channel. Old jazz plays over the aged speakers, still sounding like it did the year I first listened to it. A small smile grows across my face.

We had been living on street food, as Denver, my older brother, called it. His name for the criminals the cops couldn't catch but we could. And way too much whiskey. A time when we felt like this life we lead could actually do some good. Until it ended all too soon. She found us again. So, we ran and hid, again.

The light turns green. As I sink my foot onto the accelerator, the car growls to life, lighting up the asphalt. It turns to a solid roar as the needle hits four thousand revolutions, bounces, and falls. I roll the window down and let the cold air tunnel into the car, tousling my hair.

With a tap on the breaks as my next turn comes up, I swing her around in a drift at seventy miles per hour onto Blackridge Road. The asphalt snakes through the forest, narrowing to one lane. Our road. Out of sight, out of the way.

Rolling to a stop before the garage, I see Den's pickup is already here. He must have gotten off work early. Did they run out of trees at the sawmill in the middle of the Vermont dense timber? The lumberjack life suits my big brother. He needs the physical work to level out his overthinking mind some days.

Grabbing my backpack and shutting the car door behind me, I jog up the steps to our oversized house. The Manor, we used to jokingly call it when we first moved in. It stuck. Pillars on either side of the stair treads are aged with wear that the previous owners couldn't afford to fix. Almost too rundown to be livable when we arrived, it gave Den something to occupy his mind after all he lost in New Orleans. His mate.

I still remember the expression on his face when their bond snapped into place. Shock mixed with annoyance, quickly swallowed by tenderness. She was younger than him. And human. He'd been standing inches from her, leaning from a ladder to change the blown kitchen light.

The overwhelming sensation almost knocked him off the ladder. Den was a different man after that. Zahli consumed his thoughts. Keeping her safe and making her feel loved became his entire personality. She used to joke that his overprotectiveness would be the end of her.

In the end, after the moment he eased off after her begging for a little less overbearing and a little more trust, she died within days. She didn't know the lengths that our enemies would go to hurt us.

We lost her to Anjelica.

Never had I seen fear like I did in Zahli's eyes that night. The worst day of both our lives. We swore that would never happen again.

On the porch, his muddy boots lay scattered beside the front door. I turn the knob and push the door open.

"Den?" Hanging my pack and then coat on the hooks by the door, I unzip the bag, sliding the laptop out. The foyer is as grand as the porch and fully renovated inside. The old-world aesthetic Denver enjoys so much is like a warm hug coming home.

"Living room, brother."

Computer in one hand, I detour to the study, left of the foyer, to plug it in to charge. The green light on the side of the machine flashes and I leave it, walking to the living room. My big brother sits spread out on the lounge chair that appears small under his sprawling frame, whiskey glass in one hand, head resting on the back of the sofa, eyes closed.

"How's school?" he asks, eyes closed still. A soft smile spreads over his stubbled jaw.

He loves asking me that ever since I started back teaching literature, archaeology, or whatever positions in relic-type subjects I could find.

"Fine. A small incident with a student."

Den opens his eyes, and his mouth stretches to a grin.

"Not that kind of thing." I frown as I pluck a tumbler from the drinks caddy by the lounge. Glass chinks as I pry the crystal from the throat of the canister and pour an inch of the amber liquid into one for myself.

Denver sits forward, his brows imitating mine. "Well?"

"One of my new students is a witch."

"That's impossible; there are no practicing witches here. I checked, thoroughly , before we settled on this location, remember?"

"Yup." I swirl the contents, the amber liquid sloshing up the crystal wall. Anjelica's reach back then had been extensive. The smaller and more isolated the town, the better. The city is my preference, but when you are trying to outrun the devil herself, choice is not a luxury you have.

Denver meets my gaze. "So, change classes, and hope she doesn't realize what you are. Witches would love nothing more than to out us."

"Tried; the Chancellor won't budge."

"Fuck."

"Tell me about it." I slump into the armchair opposite my brother, studying the bottom of my glass. "You know what, I am tired of running. Let her find us. Three hundred -odd years is more than enough for any one soul to be dragged through hell."

"You don't mean that, Lew; we have come close in the past, we will figure this out."

"We are not moving again; she doesn't control us anymore. We're done."

"It's not that simple, Lewis." His voice is a raw growl. He's only trying to protect me, but I will not be the reason the only person I care about gets a shadow of a life.

He plonks his glass on the drinks trolley with a crack. "What if we stay put and she turns up on our doorstep? Your time would be up."

"Not necessarily. I still have a number of moon cycles to go."

"Have you found anything of breaking the curse yet?"

"Only that it requires an elemental witch. And what witch is going to go up against a coven leader who is centuries old and holds influence and connections almost everywhere?" I scrub my hands over my face.

The research I have been doing into breaking the curse Anjelica put on me the day I turned consumes my mind. Especially since my three hundred years ticked over. The moon cycles she wove into the spell are dwindling. We should have started hunting for a way to break it the day that bitch execrated me, decades ago. But staying alive seemed more urgent.

"So, pull out of teaching and let's go find someone willing to help," Denver says, standing.

"You think I haven't already scoured the country? I have!"

Denver's head tilts to the side and his mouth thins to an angry line. "You can't give up, Lewis."

"It's not about giving up. We have run out of time, and there is no one left who would be able to do what we need them to do. Anjelica made sure of that."

"Women and their grudges," he grunts.

"I need to feed." Making my way toward the foyer, I pluck a parka from the rack, not that we feel the cold. But if someone sees me out in the night forest without warm clothing, it only adds to the questions. The last thing we want is people taking notice.

"Wait, I'll go with you." Den appears by my side, throwing on a flannel jacket and a dark scarf. Always the lumberjack. We have become good at playing the part, after decades in various roles and lives.

We hike past the last of the homes toward the nature reserve closest to our home. The tall pines and thick undergrowth are home to much wildlife and the larger animals that we hunt on the regular. The bouquet of timber and damp earth calms my soul.

A heartbeat after we leave the highway, Denver picks up a trail and takes off, his movements faster than any human could focus on. I track in the opposite direction until I come to another trail, but this one isn't animal. I crouch, touching the ground indented with a boot print large enough for a man. That scent again.

So familiar.

Caution waxes through my core. A stick snaps deeper into the woods, the odor of deer reaching my position. The thundering in my veins turns my throat to fire. Without warning, I charge toward it. It can't outrun me, but I let it try, for a little while, to send its blood pumping. The flavor is always so much richer. I sprint past trees, faster and faster. Brush and bark are collateral damage as I close in on the fawn beast... can almost taste the warmth of it.

Three strides and I am around it. I plunge a fist into its still-moving chest and it buckles toward me, weight lifting off its back feet. I slide backward a little but hold my ground. A second later, I rip my hand from its trembling body. It crumples to the forest floor, its heart quivering in my hand. The fire in my throat flickers upward.

Holding the now-still heart above my face, I squeeze every last drop from the four chambers into my open mouth, tossing it to the ground. Stepping to the limp beast as the life dulls from its eyes, I sink my teeth into its soft neck. Copper warmth satiates the burning, easing it further until it subsides. Every last drop drains from the beast, and I won't need to hunt for another few weeks.

A twig snaps underfoot mere feet from where I kneel. That familiar and unwelcome scent finds me again. I rise and wipe my face clean with my sleeve. The heat in my vein's gone, my vision turns from reddened to crisp in seconds.

Snap.

Closer—the scout is closing in on me. There's more than one.

Dirt and debris fly from under my boots as I spin around, searching between the pine trunks. The shape of a man comes into focus around four hundred feet away. He is mostly hidden by a dark robe. Shadow scout.

Fuck.

If they are here, they must have followed us. But we have taken out their type before. I pretend to be unaware of their presence and turn back in the direction Denver went. Here's hoping they are only hunting me. Pulling my phone from my jeans pocket, I text Den, asking his location. He replies with a drop pin, deeper in. Heading off in that direction, I'm slower than normal, allowing the scouts to follow.

Moments later, I find my brother, kneeling satiated beside a mutilated bear. He turns when a stick snaps under my boot, and I raise an eyebrow.

"What? It put up a fight." The bloody grin on his face coaxes one from mine.

"Fun's over, brother; two scouts popped up on my six."

"In that case, let's have some fun." Denver stands and cleans his face and hands. He inhales, long and slow. I do the same. They are not far away. Denver shoots me a side glance before taking off toward them at speed. My vision struggles to keep up with his hulking frame and agility. First, we split up, as we always do. Next, we appear from either side.

Last, they die screaming.

Two fewer witches in the world.