49. Matrilineal Lines

forty-nine

“What if I fail?”

“You’ve never failed me before,” Ezra said, pinching her chin. “Now would be a terrible time to start.”

He kissed her, quick and fierce. He made promises and told Milla that he loved her. The slice on her arm stung, the tether snapped into being, and then Ezra marched deeper into the lake, the water churning at his legs.

Summoning the Shades was the easy part, the most practiced bit of magic in the whole endeavor. Countless flies, rats, and toads had found themselves with new passengers over the years she had been with Ezra. Confidence thrilled through her as she let her vision fracture, seeking out the potential of death, luring those Shades to heed her call, and opening the way between realms.

Black smoke rose off the water, thin curls at first, whorling tighter and tighter until they coalesced into a thin seam, stretching beyond its bounds until the world split wide open. Arctic winds churned waves in the lake; they tore at Milla’s cheeks, and she saw Ezra pushed back a step. And another.

“Now, Millapet!” he yelled, the words edged in fear. She doubled her intent, tripled, and quadrupled. Her knees shook, and her calves cramped. The pinching of decayed lace grew at her temples, but Milla kept on with her call, her summons.

Something tugged at her heart; a return summons beckoning Milla closer. One she was powerless but to heed. She took a step, another. Out of the occult circle, down into the silt. The waters lapped at her thighs, and that ludicrous skirt pulled in the tide, threatening to sweep her away.

A tendril of silken midnight slithered out of the Shade realm to coil around Milla’s wrist, and a small, inquisitive voice said, “I know you, you know.”

Clouds.

Milla was asleep in the clouds. Puffy, soft white clouds billowing in a cornflower blue sky.

The wrong clouds.

Her clouds were stormy and black, smelling of winter spice and smoke. They rumbled low like thunder in a spring storm and took up altogether too much space.

These clouds were clean and crisp and boasted the highest Egyptian cotton thread count money could buy. The wrongness pried her eyelids apart, and she regretted it immediately. Even with curtains drawn and lights out, the room was too bright and too clean. Everything was sharp angles and flat surfaces, absent a Shade and a Soul.

She rolled over, half expecting to see Darkly, but there was only the empty expanse of the bed she lay in.

In a room she didn’t recognize.

She bolted upright. The motion shrank her skull about five sizes, and the pain of it matched the rest of her body. Her right arm screamed when she moved it, her left muttered annoyed protests, and every muscle in her legs strongly considered throwing its hands up and leaving her body altogether. She croaked, tongue dry as ash and throat ravaged.

A bleary glance showed Milla one scrap of personality in the shape of a bedside table hosting a tall cylinder of fashion water, a bowl of exotic fruit, none of which she recognized, a packaged moist towelette, and her phone plugged into the wall.

“What the—”

Three terse raps on the door cut her off. The stainless steel handle rattled, stopped, and then turned ninety degrees as the door opened. She yanked the down comforter to her shoulders, half registering that all she wore were her shorts and the bandeau top, which had slipped below her breasts. She tugged the black elastic into place, and her eyes landed on the ashen streaks her fingers left on the sheets. And then the dried blood, mud, and what looked embarrassingly like drool.

“Hey there, kiddo, how are we feeling?” A pleasant tenor sang-spoke as the door opened, revealing Stefan Holfstaedter in chinos, a casual short-sleeved button-down, and leather moccasins with no socks. He balanced a mound of towels in his arms and looked Milla over with that cultivated smile plastered on his face.

“What,” Milla croaked as pieces of the night came back to her in flashes. The brückengeist, bodies hitting the ground, Darkly, Tobias and the burnout, and Milla slurring something at the CEO of Erlich Industries before—

“Ohmygoddess, I passed out in your lap.” She clapped her hands over her mouth and stared wide-eyed at Stefan over her fingertips. His smile dropped a little, and then something more genuine bowed his lips, showing the creases at the corners of his eyes from years of laughter. It softened the corporate mien and made him all the more relatable.

“Well, kiddo, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the first time.”

“It was for me.” Milla scrunched her eyes closed and then clarified, “With a billionaire CEO, I mean.”

Because that helps.

Stefan chuckled, and the end of the mattress dipped under his weight. When she opened her eyes, he was perched on the corner, close enough to be cautiously friendly, but nowhere near inappropriate.

“You did pass out pretty hard back there.” She blinked, fingers trailing down to her chin, and he kept on. “Now don’t worry, nothing untoward happened. That big angry fella helped carry you in here, and no one has touched you since. Well, minus the band-aids.” He gestured to her hand, his eyes fell to Milla’s shoulder, and then he frowned at the stains on the sheets.

Milla examined the beige bandages wrapped around several of her fingers. A glance at her shoulder revealed a giant, medical-grade bandage covering her skin where Cyrus’s hex had landed. She sniffed, catching the scent of lavender and calendula.

“Big fella dropped off a change of clothes, if you’d like to shower.” Stefan wafted a hand at the wall and a series of small depressions that were almost like handles. “You cut yourself working on that leather tie-down. I had our camp nurse tend to you. Don’t worry about the sheets, kiddo. You saved my life, which is worth far more than my bedding.”

The laugh lines appeared again with his grin, and though it seemed genuine, Milla had a hard time believing he wasn’t actually freaking out over her filth on his fancy sheets.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“Now, don’t freak out.”

“That tends to have the opposite effect on people,” Milla wheezed. Stefan frowned a little and rose from the bed. Grabbing the fashion water from the side table, he showed her that the bottle was sealed before twisting the cap and holding it out for her to take.

“No more talking until you drink up, kiddo.”

“Where is Darkly?”

Stefan waggled the bottle, tapping the bottom of it against her knuckles. Milla relented, took a small sip, and swallowed with a grimace.

“Darkly is the big fella’s name?” he asked. She nodded, draining more of the bottle. “I’ll go let him know you’re awake. You sit tight, kiddo.”

Stefan left, the door clicking quietly closed behind him. Milla drew her knees up to her chest, running through the night before. Everything she had done and learned, and settling herself in the knowledge that Darkly had gotten her here, which meant he was alright, and not the meatsuit for whatever those ritualists were attempting to summon.

The door handle jogged again, and Milla sat up straighter. Her heart flipped over at the prospect of Darkly standing on the other side and thudded like a stone when Tobias entered.

He closed and locked the door behind him, facing Milla and running his hand through filthy hair. “You were not supposed to be there,” he said.

“Gathered that.” She waited for him to speak. He must have something to say, some explanation of what he was and how he could perform a burnout on command. Instead, he dropped his eyes to the bottle in her hands. “You should drink. Beyond the magick you cast yesterday, the burnout has a tendency to dehydrate survivors.”

“That’s … ominous.”

“It is,” he agreed.

The door handle jogged again, and Stefan muttered something to himself before knocking. “Y’all want omelets?”

Tobias stared at Milla, Milla shrugged, and he unlocked the door, opening it a crack. “A moment, bitte.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Stefan ducked away, and Tobias closed the door.

“May I sit?” He gestured to the bed. When she nodded, he took the same place Stefan had and stared at his knees before saying, “I need to get the story straight before we leave here.”

“Where is here, exactly?”

Tobias’s mouth twitched into a smile, and he shook his head. “Herr Holfstaedter’s private recreational vehicle.”

Milla’s jaw dropped. “His … his fuck wagon?”

He chuckled, true mirth in the sound, and then he shook his head. “No, just a normal, ehm, RV.”

“Seriously?” Milla sent a wide-eyed look to the sheets and the sparse room. “You’re telling me this isn’t a fuck wagon? He’s probably got thousand thread count Shangri-la silk tie-downs that retract into the wall.”

Tobias pulled his lips between his teeth, and she suspected he was trying not to laugh. He cleared his throat instead. “Lou has questions, primarily around how you got to the ritualists.”

“I don’t know,” Milla said too quickly.

“Yes, you do, and you are going to tell me,” he said with the patience of a man who is used to being lied to. “Or you are done.”

“What?” Milla goggled at him. “She can’t do that.”

“She can, and she will, Ludmilla.” Tobias pinned her with that blue-eyed stare. “What happened last night … you hurt her brother.”

“ She sent her brother into a dangerous ritual. Alone.”

“And he saw Cyrus, who has vanished once more, and your Way is all over the site. She has questions.”

“He … what do you mean vanished? ” Milla hugged her knees tighter, a chill creeping down her arms. “I left him rotted three-ways to Sunday, lying in the grass. How could he vanish?”

Tobias pursed his lips, his gaze wandered over Milla’s head, and she became acutely aware of the fact that he did not know. He sighed and met her gaze again. “Lou will not be the only one with questions.”

The anger in Milla’s chest bottomed out, replaced with something far more timorous.

“How is he?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Sleeping it off.” Tobias set his hand on the bed between them as if reaching out to comfort her, even though he knew she wouldn’t accept. “Burnout tends to be a harsh recovery.”

“You say that as if this is a common occurrence.” He remained silent, and Milla closed her eyes, her heart panging.

“I, too, have a question. If you are willing to answer it.”

“Hit me.” Milla met his piercing gaze.

“How did you know?”

“That you could take down Darkly?”

Tobias shook his head, mouthing, “Nein.”

“Oh.” Milla filled in what he didn’t say and took a steadying breath. “I didn’t,” she admitted. “Not really. I knew it had to be someone close to the team or with access to us, but honestly? I thought the chronomantic in the cells and my house was Dina.”

“The Third Head?” Tobias hopped to his feet, looking genuinely surprised. “Why her?”

“Lou said she was a close family friend and that she—” Milla pressed her lips together, realizing she had gone too far. But there were too many questions around Lou. Where was Donmar? Why had she been so willing to send Darkly alone, and how did she know about the flower trick?

“You think this goes that far?” Tobias asked.

“What do you mean this?”

Tobias’s face hardened, and those clear blue eyes drilled into her. “How many witches were there that night, Milla? On the lake, and at Marie’s ball; whose faces do you recall?”

“I don’t—what? What do you know?”

He rose and regarded her before speaking again. “This will never work if you cannot trust me, Milla.”

“How can I trust you?” she asked, raising her voice. “You work for Lou.”

Tobias scoffed as if that were the most offensive idea in the world. “Whoever said I work for Lou?”

“Who wants fresh squeezed orange juice?” Stefan knocked again, harder this time. Both witches jumped, and Tobias shot an annoyed look at the door.

“Find out what you can,” he ordered, leaving before she could reply.

The shower was blessedly hot. She washed her hair three times and only whimpered in pain twice when she forgot about the hex on her shoulder. When the steam cleared, Milla leaned close to the mirror, eyeing what remained of the funeral mask. It had retreated to a cluster of blackened veins at her temples, easily hidden by her hair. Her fingertips were still blackened, which was a minor problem, but it was her eyes that had Milla staring at her reflection for a good long while.

Where before, the deep brown held just a spraying of tombstone gray, now the mark of her magick burst around her pupil, thinning as it reached for the edge of her iris.

Ripping the bandage on her shoulder away with a quick jerk, she studied the delicate lacing of skulls and bones wrapping around her shoulder like a tattoo in red, ashen ink. The wound was still new, and Milla had no doubt the color would fade to something less obvious. She ran her finger lightly over the raised flesh, muttering to her reflection, “At least it’s kind of cool.”

Careful of the wound, she pulled on the stretchy purple sports bra and grey muscle tank Tobias had brought by and shimmied into the yoga pants before entering the RV’s main room.

Stefan sat at the kitchen table, reading a tablet with his ankle propped on a knee, looking for all the world like a suburban dad on a Sunday morning. Or so she assumed. Milla hadn’t spent many Sunday mornings with her dad or anyone else’s, so the image that came to mind was entirely drawn from television shows and cereal commercials.

And Stefan Holfstaedter was a perfect rendition of that Hollywood ideal.

Thick, wavy brown hair trimmed on the sides, long on top, and shot through with salt and pepper at the temples. Stylish scruff dusted a square, all-American jaw, fitting when paired with broad shoulders on a fit body. The man looked as comfortable in his chinos and button-down as he did in a slim-cut suit on national television. Milla was pretty certain he’d look just as at home in pajama pants and a bathrobe.

Or a smoking jacket.

A cup of tea sat beside a folded newspaper and an empty plate on the table, and the news was playing on a television somewhere out of sight. The curtains were drawn, blocking Milla from the real world, and she stood in the narrow hallway for a second, trying to figure out how to sneak past Stefan without him seeing her.

She settled instead on saying, “This is all very weird.”

Stefan looked up at her and laughed, a warm, genuine sound that immediately put her at ease.

“Sit, sit.” He rose and gestured to an empty seat at the table, where an omelet waited for her on a pale yellow plate.

Milla sat and stared at the omelet. And then she stared at Stefan.

“You’re shorter than you look on TV.”

“I get that all the time.” He had the grace to laugh, and again, those crow’s feet crinkled his eyes. “Can I let you in on a little secret?” Stefan waggled a moccasin-ed foot. “Camera angles and big shoes.” He nudged the plate closer to her, then pinched the edge of a rolled napkin to reveal a fork and knife. “Bell pepper, swiss, mushrooms, salt and pepper. Big fella said you’re vegetarian, right?” Milla nodded, dumbfounded. “Please, eat. I won’t talk until you’ve got something in your belly.” His smile sharpened, and he winked. Winked . “I usually buy a woman dinner before she ends up with her face between my legs, so please allow this gentleman his delay in manners.”

Milla’s cheeks heated, and she grabbed the fork, fingers fumbling around the metal. She focused her attention on the omelet, shearing off a corner and popping it into her mouth. It was Horned God-damned delicious, and she struggled to swallow the moan that came with the bite. “Oh, my Goddess.”

“How do you take your coffee?” Stefan asked as he rose and faced the kitchen nook. “Milk? Sugar? Cream?” He held up a goose-neck kettle.

“Sweet and pale as snow,” Milla replied, shoving a forkful of omelet into her mouth.

“A girl after my own heart,” Stefan hummed. Milla’s cheeks flamed hotter, which was just embarrassing. She was blushing like a schoolgirl. Or Darkly. When had that started?

He poured hot water from the kettle over the grinds in the dripper, humming as it filled her cup. He finished it off with a heaping spoonful of sugar and a generous dollop of cream and set the concoction in front of Milla with a flourish.

She took a sip, mentally preparing herself for subpar coffee made by a man who probably employed a different cook for every meal and two sous chefs for snacks. Her eyes flew open at the decadent, silken drink that met her tongue.

It was good.

Horned God-damned good.

“I wouldn’t have assumed a man like you to make his own breakfast,” Milla said in lieu of thanks. Stefan’s friendly smile faltered, and he took a seat, swiping at something on his tablet before fixing her with a warm, brown-eyed stare.

“Wouldn’t have assumed a wispy thing like you to be a Death Witch.”

Coffee sprayed over her omelet and the table, and Milla sputtered, “What?”

Amusement again crinkled his eyes as she blotted the coffee with her napkin. He waited until she was recovered before he explained.

“I come from a long line of occult-obsessed Texans,” he started. “My great Memaw was a witch, at least as far as Papaw tells it.” A well-practiced chuckle had him shaking his head at the memory. “The matrilineal line died out around World War Two. Big shame, really,” he shrugged, “but what are you going to do?”

“How did the line die out?” Milla sipped her coffee, wondering if it were appropriate to ask. But she needed to have something to give Lou whenever CEO Soccer Dad let her leave. Stefan glanced at her, but he didn’t seem offended. He seemed resigned more than anything else.

“Momma would say it’s a curse; the Holfstaedter Sons are a bit of a running joke where I come from.”

“Is that how you got involved in that ritual?” she asked.

Stefan puffed out his cheeks, and Milla realized she may have overstepped. The man had almost died, or worse, been possessed by Goddess knows what. He exhaled, eyes on Milla, and then ran a hand through his hair. As he did so, she noted a burnished gold alumni ring on his right hand. A musket and sword crossed over a cannon were engraved on the side, and the deep, garnet blood-red stone in the setting was easily the size of one of her knuckles. A wayward lock of hair flopped down over his forehead, making Stefan look younger, more rakish, and then he chuckled.

“As far as my people can figure.” He slid his eyes to hers, grinning into the rim of his teacup. “Knocked me out when I was leaving a meeting.” He took a sip. “I woke up on that table and the witchy lady in the mask started ramblin’ on about my blood being the power or somesuch. Never really followed that mambo-jambo on a good day”—he waggled his fingers at ‘mambo-jambo,’ and Milla inwardly winced at how crudely he referred to the Ways— “much less when I’ve been stripped down to my skin and tied to a table. But my Memaw, she was the last, mind, always said we came from a powerful line of witches.”

“And your Memaw was a witch?” Stefan nodded. Milla narrowed her eyes. “I thought you said there were no daughters.”

“She was the last girl born into the family.” He swept a hand in the air, dismissing her suspicion. “As I said, the Holfstaedter Sons are a bit of a running joke, cursed with a football team’s worth of boys since nineteen-twenty.”

Milla finished her coffee and set the mug down. “Well, you’re handling being the survivor of a ritual sacrifice really well. Most mortals would be tearing at their hair or calling up the National Enquirer by now.”

“Part of being an internationally recognizable CEO.” He grinned at her. “It’s a bad week in business if there isn’t someone calling for my head. Rest assured, kiddo, my therapist earns his paycheck.” That said, he tapped on his tablet and spun it to face her, watching Milla closely. “This your store?”

She frowned at the Yap! Reviews page on the screen. The main image was a street front shot of Southern Gothic, and the late Kayleigh Masterson’s slanderous words still crowned the reviews as her highest-rated comment.

Milla rubbed her temples. “I am never going to get rid of those reviews.”

“I knew it!” Stefan slapped his hand against the table, rattling the dishware. “Thought you looked familiar!” He snatched his tablet back and opened another app—the occult bidding website she and Diego used. “I got myself into a fierce bidding war a while back over an antique séancetable from London.” His eyes twinkled at her, and Milla’s stomach fluttered. “Rumored to be the same table Sir Arthur Conan Doyle used when trying to summon Agatha Christie.”

Milla knew the exact table he meant. It was sitting in the main room of her store, serving as a display for piles of hideous leggings.

“Lost on a generous bid from a store owner and collector of antiquities in St. Augustine. Been wonderin’ for a while who the person behind the handle ‘xBlackxParadexPrincess95’ was.”

Milla’s ears blazed hot and she unwound the towel from her head, dragging fingers through her hair to hide the blushing. Honestly, it was getting out of control. “My co-worker keeps telling me I need to change my screen name.”

Stefan chuckled, shaking his head as he scrolled through the reviews, lingering on Kayleigh’s. “Well, that’s not nice, nor is it representative of the witch who saved my life.”

“I crossed the wrong hun,” Milla explained. “She sent her horde after me.”

“Ah, yes, the ICYMI Banner.” Stefan put his tablet down. “We’ve been trying to clean up that mess since the acquisition.”

“Erlich Industries bought ICYMI?” He nodded. Milla curled her lip in disgust. “Why? Those leggings are hideous.”

“I know, I know, but the board raised a compelling argument.” Stefan rolled his eyes and shrugged in a manner that said, ‘What can you do?’ “Sales are trending net positive and poised to grow. The year-over-year was too irresistible to pass up, and due to some nastiness around their quarterly conference in your neck of the woods, the price was right.”

Milla pinched her lips, and a knock on the door spared her from having to explain all of that .

“Ludmilla, we need to get moving,” Tobias called through the door.

“Alright, big fella, alright.” Stefan threw his hands up in surrender and leaned towards Milla. “Kiddo, it has been a pleasure.” He extended his hand and Milla forced herself to keep her eyes on his. It seemed rude to read his palm, considering he’d almost been a human sacrifice. Especially after he’d gone out of his way to make sure she was alright. She gave the CEO a firm shake like her father had taught her to do, and Stefan smiled in a way that caused a weird little flutter in her chest. “Now that’s a businesswoman’s handshake.”

“Thank you for the omelet.” Milla pulled away, averting her eyes. She picked up the damp towel she’d pulled from her hair and folded it to busy her hands, looking around for somewhere to place it. Stefan hopped from his chair, grabbed the towel, and headed to the bedroom. “I’m sorry, again, about your sheets.”

“No worries, kiddo!” He returned with a canvas bag. “Belt, socks, the remains of one ruined vest … thing, a little pouch, and your boots are by the door.” Stefan pointed over her shoulder, and sure enough, there were her boots next to a familiar pair of well-worn checkered slip-ons. “You saved my life. Least I could do.”

Milla slung the bag over her good shoulder and stepped into her slip-ons. A last thought occurred as she grabbed her boots and noted the red clay clinging to the soles. “What were you doing in backwater Alabama, anyways?”

The corporate mask slid into place, his eyes gone carefully friendly, and the cultivated smile reappeared. “Had a meeting, like I said,” Stefan replied. He leaned a hip against the counter, perfectly casual. “My assistant arranges corporate retreats whenever we finalize an acquisition.”

“You’re … camping?”

“Glamping,” he winked. “I’m not a savage.” He jounced from the counter and crossed the RV to open the door for Milla. Sunlight poured in, and she scrunched her eyes against the burn. “I like to drive myself to these meetings when I can; keeps the head clear and the body humble.”

“On one-thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.”

“Like I said”—his smile widened, and Milla looked away before he could see the blush that smile pulled into her cheeks—“I’m not a savage.”