13

It's funny—though not really at all, if you think about it—how abruptly and completely we manage to rationalize the inexplicable.

If the mind fails to seize upon a plausible explanation (which would endure only the gentlest of scrutiny), we dismiss the

inexplicable event and refuse to consider it again. Tell ourselves it was an aberration, an oddity, that we are not masters

of the universe; there are stranger things in the night than you and I.

There are, by the way.

By the time I regained the main foyer, with the entry table and vase of cut flowers, the brilliant colors of the lady of the

manor with her children, and the dazzling stained glass above the stairwell, through which golden rays of sunshine streamed,

I'd nearly convinced myself I'd gotten so spooked by the claustrophobic chute and dark cabin that I'd merely imagined the

unnatural events in the apothecary/library.

Mind you, I knew it wasn't true. But in the light of day, with a warm Louisiana breeze fluttering the curtains, the incident

was easier to make somehow smudgy in my mind, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that the mind will insist there "must be" a logical explanation until

the bitter end. Unable to resolve the event to my satisfaction, I equivocated that there was a logical explanation—I just didn't know what it was. Yet. Perhaps an elaborate prank. A Halloween jest set up for last year's

bash that had been forgotten. Perhaps Juniper had a strange sense of humor.

God, do we mindfuck ourselves.

At 11 a.m., I met Ian Laherty in the south reception room. When I entered, he surged up from the settee, a burly lumberjack of a man in a dark suit and tie, with flaming red hair, fiery beard, and brilliant blue eyes in his late thirties. I could more easily envision him—knowing now what I did of Divinity's Scottish heritage—hauling rough-hewn trees through a field of heather than working behind a desk every day.

"Such a pleasure, Ms.Grey," he said, pumping my hand so enthusiastically, I felt as if I had sea legs and braced my feet

more firmly. "I missed you at the Shadows, arrived after you'd already gone. Wife was devastated she didn't get to meet you."

We made a bit of small talk about how I was finding the house and the grounds, and the weather in Louisiana as opposed to

back home. Then, settling into the seating cozy, we addressed business.

"Were this anything but the Cameron estate," he told me, "I would haggle over details that are little more than issues of

convenience and comfort, such as restrictions on guests—which incidentally means should you wed, your husband can't live here

until your three years are up, though my partners and I believe there is sufficient leeway to build a separate house on the

grounds—and your occupancy in the manor. Please be advised, you must remain in residence in the house for eleven months of

each year. For the next three years, you can only travel for up to a single month annually, cumulative ."

"Why such bizarre restrictions?"

"There's a common thread tying them together. Juniper's aim was to keep you here, undistracted by travel or out of town guests, because she felt, if she could achieve that, you'd see Divinity, fall in love with the town and estate, and relish taking the reins. As opposed to, say, moving friends in, gallivanting around the globe, and ignoring the town that was her life's work. Mr. Balfour told me Juniper compiled a report on you, but she couldn't divine your personality, motivations, work ethic, or ambitions, and she knew nothing of your heart. It frightened her to relinquish her empire to a woman she'd never met. She held on to what things she could through these contingencies, hoping to elicit a positive outcome for both her heir and the town. None of them are harmful to you. They're chafing inconveniences; ones I'd protest vigorously, were this any other case, but I must advise you, Ms. Grey, none of her requirements are contestable. If you wish to inherit, you must abide by her stipulations. All of them."

"Are there other contingencies of which I should be aware?" I asked, intending to read the entire thing, front to back, twice.

He shook his head. "They all tie into occupancy, to keep you focused on building a life here." He paused, then said, "My partners

and I wouldn't hesitate to advise you to sign. But if you haven't read through it, you should. You'll find our report on the

top."

He rose and handed me a hefty leather folder, emblazoned with his law firm's name and logo. "The settlement is straightforward

and not nearly as long as it looks. The majority of the pages are legal documents to be completed for banks and various institutions

with whom she—you do business. Forms to be witnessed and notarized. The bequest itself is only seven pages plus a lengthy

addendum, detailing the specifics of the inheritance, followed by a sizeable stack of the aforementioned legal documents.

I'll take no more of your time, Ms.Grey, but hope, should you require assistance in the future, you'll not hesitate to phone

me. You'll find my office, home, and cell numbers in the folder. Please feel free to call me, day or night."

After Alice ushered him out, I sat for a time, acknowledging that, despite the inexplicable, disturbing things that had happened to me of late, I wasn't sure wild horses could drag me away from Cameron Manor.

Yes, there were wrinkles in the new fabric of my life. There'd been more, and far more painful ones, in the old fabric. I'd

gone from pauper to princess. Gone was worked-to-exhaustion, numb, tragic Zo of the chilly gray Midwestern states, who'd never

been respected by anyone.

In the fascinating, sunny, vibrant town of Divinity, I was Ms.Grey-Cameron, heiress to the greatest of legacies, treated

with respect by almost all, able to pay my debts and, at long last, see a promising future for myself.

It wasn't a carrot at the end of that stick.

It was Paradise.

Note from future Zo: The devil never thunders in on cloven hoof, reeking of brimstone, holding an ominously glowing contract

that must be signed in blood. She dances near, smiling contagiously, tiara sparkling, holding the keys to the kingdom.

I filled the subsequent hours with trivial occupations, staying blithely distracted. My appetite had been insane for the past

few days, so I raided the kitchen like a woman starved, sampling everything I found in the fridge, freezer, and larder. I

found I adored pralines and red velvet cake and hated boiled peanuts. "Crawfish"—which we called mudbugs back home—were never

going to happen unless camouflaged by gumbo spiked with sufficient andouille to render them ignorable.

I explored the whatnot boxes, discovering an array of jewelry, hats, lingerie, designer purses, and wallets that left me stunned.

I sat in bed clutching Mom's urn and sobbed violently for nearly an hour, stuffing my nose completely, leaving my eyes so red and swollen, I had to ice my face with a bag of frozen peas.

After that, Mr.Balfour texted to tell me they'd identified the body of one Finnegan Harlow, who had texts on his phone from

a blocked number, reiterating that the woman was under no circumstances to be harmed, merely frightened. The cause of death: end stage congestive heart failure, with functional deterioration of

the organ so severe, the coroner expressed astonishment Harlow had lived as long as he had.

Still, Mr.Balfour insisted I either remain in the house or take guards with me, should I leave. He proposed a driver meet

Este in the nearby town of Sheldon to escort her to the manor, giving me the address of a restaurant, Lafitte's, at which

he advised they meet.

Shortly before dusk, I went to let Rufus out, stepping into the rear courtyard, only to be instantly flanked by a pair of

towering men who dripped the same kind of presence I'd felt that night in Criollo.

"Ms.Grey, I'm Jesse," the man on my right said. "That's Burke. We're day shift, about to change off."

I glanced up—and, good God, up —to meet Jesse's gaze, and got hung there. He was power and menace, held softly.

His eyes said he'd seen war and survived it by doing things no man should ever be forced to do. A patient, resigned strength emanated from him as if, at some point, he'd accepted that he was both utterly necessary and utterly expendable and that, because of the evils in the world, he'd become the most lethal among them, in order to hold the line and light. My heart clenched as I stared into gray eyes raging with storms yet so very, very quiet, and I got the sudden image of a formidable, armored black crab squatting inside his skull, clutching a shining pearl in its claws, holding on to it with all its might, and knew it was the final vestiges of his humanity he guarded so fiercely.

"A pleasure," I said, and meant it, turning to greet Burke, finding similar eyes and tightly governed lethality. "I was just

going to the greenhouse."

"We'll escort you," Jesse said, studying my face. "I'm sorry for your loss, Ms.Grey. James told us about your mother."

I blinked and realized, to my complete mortification, the door to my balcony had been ajar while I'd sobbed, directly above

their station. These obdurate men who'd experienced the brutalities of war had heard me weeping like an orphan, lost.

A gentleness I'd not have suspected flickered in Jesse's gaze, and he murmured, "Pray the day you can no longer weep like

that never comes."

Turning, he, with Burke bringing up the rear, began to walk to the greenhouse, and I trailed him, fisting my hands to keep

from grabbing Jesse's arm and dragging him into the nearest shadowed alcove for frantic, explosive sex. A big man who'd suffered,

sacrificing himself to protect those in need; his empathy, prizing my tears, slayed me, stirring my lust. But then again,

lately, everything did.

At the entry, he turned, looked down at me, and said quietly, "I serve of my own free will and am here for whatever you wish

of me, Ms.Grey. Nights are long, alone."

I imagined being touched with kindness and desire was balm to Jesse's soul, after the horrors he'd experienced, that in consuming

passion devoted solely to another's body, he could forget his pain for a time. We were two of a kind in that.

"You're here," Devlin growled behind me, "to guard the blood heir. Not one thing more."

Chocolate, chocolate everywhere, but not a bar to eat , I reminded myself. "I'd like to spend time alone in the greenhouse. I'll be safe enough inside. You can watch me through the glass."

"Not comfortable with that, ma'am. Beyond the foliage, we'll lose sight of you," Jesse clipped.

I felt a flash of ire at Devlin for Jesse's retreat into formality. I'd enjoyed being Ms.Grey, not ma'am. Surrounded by too

much testosterone for my peace of mind, I opened the greenhouse door, watched as Rufus soared out, flying low to vanish into

the gloaming, then marched back inside the house at a brisk pace, bidding the three men good night over my shoulder as I closed

the door, stealing no additional glances at them.

I passed another restless night in frightening dreams of dark chutes and archaic grimoires that could fly, and chased me about,

cackling maniacally from between glued pages; of terrifying bonfires and skulking men of brutal, secretive ilk; of gray-cloaked,

featureless beings who carefully observed, from the quiet corners of my mind, each fear I faced and how I responded.

When the morning light swept across my bed to banish the dust of shadowy dreams, I woke with a single shining thought.

It was Friday—Este would soon be here!

A gloomy thought eclipsed it.

Hours before she was allowed to be, knowing Este, placing my inheritance in jeopardy.

Oh, how quickly it had become my inheritance; a thing I would permit no one to take from me.

I didn't bother trying to accomplish anything that day. After letting Rufus in and gorging on a breakfast of the thickest rashers of maple bacon I'd ever seen, poached eggs, and fresh tomatoes with parsley and chives I gathered from pots situated on decorative stepladders, I wandered the south wing, acclimating myself to the corridors and rooms, greeting passing staff, pressing my hands to panels, and hunting for hidden doors. I found two more that merely connected hallways in unobtrusive fashion, harboring neither mystery nor concealed treasure.

I had no desire to return to the shadowy, perplexing northwest wing, although I planned to coax Este into exploring there

with me tomorrow, to see what she made of the strange book, assuming it "communicated" again.

I put my worries on hold, including those about Mom's murder and the effort to frighten me, focusing instead on the delights

of Cameron Manor, while anticipating my best friend's arrival. Este had a way of viewing life from an eclectic, artistically

fresh perspective that never failed to help me clarify my path. And if she genuinely knew things, if Mom had divulged secrets

to her that she'd never told me... well, I'd try hard to focus on being happy Mom had, at least, planned ahead.

When, by four, Este had neither arrived nor responded to any of my texts about meeting at Lafitte's, I was growing concerned.

I texted Mr.Balfour to ask if he'd heard from her, as I'd sent Este his number as well. He hadn't, but the driver was scheduled

to be at the restaurant at five o'clock sharp and would wait until she arrived, however long that took.

By six, she'd neither appeared to meet the driver in Sheldon nor called. I was nearly frantic with worry and contemplating

calling her mother—and, heavens, did I find that woman off-putting—when, finally, my phone rang.

"Este, where are you?" I exclaimed.

"I might ask you the same bloody thing!" she snarled in that strange blend of accents, tribute to both parents, belonging

to neither.

"What do you mean? Didn't you get my texts about meeting at Lafitte's?"

"I wanted to find you myself. I don't need a damn driver. Problem is, apparently Divinity exists only in precious few entries

online, not reality. At least not mine . I've been driving in bloody circles for hours, trying to follow a schizoid GPS, and it's pissing me off. The app actually asked me to bloody well rate my enjoyment of its services, smack in the middle of a roundabout!

Do you know how many times I ended up circling the idiotic thing? I despise technology. How do I get to you? Is that driver of yours really the only way in?"

"You can't find Divinity," I said slowly. It was pretty much a straight shot, as I recalled, not many turns, and certainly

no roundabouts.

"Not a chance in hell," she seethed.

"I don't understand."

"Look, I'm headed for Lafitte's now. You can tell the powers that be I got their message. I'll be a good little witch. See

you soon, babe."

Este was gone.

A good little witch? Este had no problem saying bitch or any other curse word. Her mom could curse fluently in eight languages,

and they sometimes held laughing cursing matches to see who could outdo the other.

Sighing, I headed for the kitchen to find something else to eat while I killed time.

I ' d never understood why women squealed when they first saw each other until tonight. My desire for food and sex rapacious, my emotions, too, were amplified, and I raced out the front door the moment headlights flickered in the windows of the front parlor. I'd been curled up there since letting Rufus out for the evening, flipping through the pages of Southern Living , trying to decide what my taste was, now that I could afford taste. "Este!" I squealed when she stepped from the black SUV.

Statuesque, with long, dark curly hair, Este oozed earthy sensuality in a short dress, and the driver couldn't keep his eyes

off her. Men tended to have that reaction to Este. As voluptuous as I was lithe, with beautiful dark skin and luminous blue

eyes, she turned heads wherever we went; inevitably, I was noticed as an afterthought, but it never bothered me. I was proud

of my best friend, loved that she dazzled others the way she dazzled me. She'd had my back, been my champion all my life.

We'd stayed in touch over the years, despite miles and towns between us, exchanging emails and eventually texts, and I'd lived

a rich vicarious life through her exploits. Now, finally, I had an exploit to share with her.

She froze, staring at me, then past me, up and up at the house, then slowly from side to side, her expression stunned. "Holy

fuck ," she breathed.

Laughing, I ran to her and hugged her fiercely. We squealed and hugged, and when we finally separated, she stepped back and

studied me in the low light of the gas lamps. "We have a lot to talk about."

"We do," I agreed. "Come on, I'll get your bags."

"We've got them, Ms.Grey," Jesse said, behind me.

"I've got them," Devlin said. "Return to your post."

"My job is to guard Ms.Grey. I don't take orders from you," Jesse said coldly.

I glanced at Este, who was staring with rapt fascination at Devlin, then Jesse, and back again. The look she gave me spoke volumes, and, laughing, I looped my arm through hers and practically dragged her up the front steps, not caring who brought the luggage, so long as it came.

"Bloody hell, Zo, what have you gotten yourself into?" Este said slowly, looking in the door. Then she glanced down at the

threshold and demanded, "Invite me in."

I laughed. "When have you ever waited for an invitation from anyone? Este Hunter goes where she wants, when she wants, however

she wants. What were you, all of ten when you told me that? I think you were planning to be Lady Godiva for Halloween that

year," I teased.

"Not this time," she said in a strange voice. "Do it."

Snorting, I said, "Don't be put off by my seeming wealth, O Wealthy One. Come in, you idiot."

Este stepped through the door, flinched, staggered, and caught herself against the jamb, much as I had, looking as if she

might pass out. She was motionless a moment, then shook her head sharply and said, "Did you do that?"

"What?"

She pointed down at the wooden threshold.

"No idea what you mean."

"You don't see it?"

"See what?" I peered at the oak stripping. "Oh, those. Stars and triskelions are everywhere in the manor."

"Do they all shimmer like that?"

I looked more closely. They engravings did, indeed, seem to emit a faint glow I hadn't noticed, but then, I don't look at

thresholds when I walk through doors. There were other, fainter symbols, too, that I couldn't identify, which might have been

brushed on with luminescent paint.

"Do you know what these markings mean?" Este demanded.

"No. Do you?"

She studied them a long moment. Then, warily, "They're a bit complex for me. There's something... I can't quite grasp,

there's too many layers. Something... concealed. You have no idea what's going on, do you? Bloody hell, it's a damned good

thing I'm here."

I felt abruptly chilled. "What do you mean? Do you know something about those symbols?"

She closed her eyes and sighed. Opening them, she said, "Find me something to drink. Tequila will do. Then we need a place

to talk. Privately."

Jesse arrived with her bags then, Devlin beside him, and I said, "You can bring them in and drop them by the stairs."

"No!" Este snapped.

"No!" Devlin snarled.

"Rescind that, Zo," Este said in a strained voice. "Tell Jesse not to come in, but to leave my bags on the porch. Exactly

that."

I glanced from Este to Jesse to Devlin and back. The three of them were watching me with an intensity I couldn't decipher,

and I felt the same way I had in Criollo—staring blindly at weft and weave beyond my comprehension, while everyone understood

the complexity of the fabric but me. Este was worried, Devlin furious, and Jesse unreadable. "Fine," I said finally. "Don't

come in, Jesse. Just leave them on the porch."

"As you wish, ma'am," he said. The look he shot Devlin was sharp enough to flay skin from bone, and his gaze passed with palpable

chill over my best friend, which was unthinkable, coming from a man.

"Good night, Jesse, Devlin," I said with a curt nod, anxious to pick Este's brain.

"Tequila. Lime," Este urged. "And find me something southern, sweet and sinfully fattening. I need fortification."

"Got plenty of that. Follow me," I said, and turned for the kitchen.

Before long, we were seated, cross-legged, on my bed with a tray of confections between us, a bottle of Don Ramón Limited

Edition, two shot glasses, salt, and a plate of limes. Though made for sipping, we shot the first glass of the four-hundred-dollar

bottle of tequila we'd found in the butler's pantry. From Este's demeanor, I had a feeling I might need fortification, too.

She'd changed into comfy clothes, as had I—matching pink plaid pajama bottoms and oversize tees—and now, twisting her long

hair back in a clip, she did a second shot, tossed her discarded lime on a plate, and said, "I've been dying to talk to you

since the day of the fire, Zo. I promised your mother I'd get to you ASAP if anything happened to her. You drove me crazy,

avoiding me."

"You promised my mother," I echoed.

"She called me one day, while you were at work."

"The day you claimed you dropped by and she asked you in for tea?" I said tightly.

She nodded. "I wasn't comfortable telling you that on the phone. I needed to see you in person to talk about this. Joanna

insisted I come over that day, made me vow to tell you things if she died suddenly before you—" Este broke off and redirected.

"Before the cancer took her, but never to breathe a word otherwise."

"When?" I said, sounding wounded even to myself.

"A few years ago."

"Tell me everything," I demanded. "Don't omit a single word."

"I need to start a bit further back. Remember the day we met?"

"Every detail." It was the most momentous event of my young life. I'd felt an instant kinship with Este that I'd never experienced

before, except with Mom. As if, finally, someone else in the world made sense to me, and I fit somewhere.

"I told you I was so glad you were a witch, too, that I hated not having any witch friends."

I snorted. "That was a joke. You also told me Billy Baker had one ball."

"That wasn't a joke, either. I saw him in the boy's locker room."

"What were you doing in the boy's locker room? You were nine! Wait, scratch that. I don't think I want to know."

"I had the worst crush on Simon Fields, so I decided to spy and got more than I'd bargained for. I was so not ready for penises at that age."

"I think I'd have been traumatized. But I was pretty sheltered."

"I was for a few years, till the hormones kicked in. Anyway, when I realized you didn't have any idea you were a witch—I didn't

even know that was possible—I didn't push."

I said acerbically, "I'm not a witch, Este. Got no magic wand to wave, trust me."

If I did, Mom would be alive. Countless things would be different. It used to be a fantasy of mine, as I'd envisioned us sweeping away our tracks with witchy, scented brooms—that I would discover some secret, deeply buried power inside me and use it to rescue us from our nomadic, scurrying, frightened life, to banish Mom's endless illnesses. Countless were the nights I put myself to sleep as a little girl, fleshing out that fantasy. I'd blast our wicked warlock enemy to bits, sweep my mother off to a Constant House with capital letters; we'd have nice things and get to keep them, and no one would look down their noses at us ever again.

Este's gaze darkened to cobalt and ice. "Yes, you are a witch, Zodecky Grey. And there's nothing funny about what I'm telling

you. Open your mind and listen to me, and you need to be deadly serious about this. Your mother certainly was."

My smile faded, and I eyed her warily. She never called me by my full name, well, my mostly full name.

"I'm a witch," Este told me firmly. "Born into a family of Cailleach who practice the Way of the Will."

Kyle-och , she'd said, and the Way of the Will : the same words the by-turns-talkative-then-taciturn grimoire had shared in the cabin beneath the manor.

"We're light witches who follow a strict code. When you used to accuse me of bespelling people to get my way, it horrified

me because a light witch would never abuse her power that way. That's a dark witch's path."

I stared at her. "Oh my God, you're actually serious. You really think you're a witch. Like, with powers. Got a broomstick,

too? Do you fly? Perchance drift lazily down from a roof on Halloween?" I mocked.

"Samhain," Este said with grim intensity. "The feast day has an ancient, rich history, and there is no ‘think' about it. I

am a witch. It's my way of life, and it's everything to me. And yes, I have a damned broomstick. Several."

Choking back laughter, I pressed, "So, that means you do fly? Kick your legs over the side and soar, crooning ‘Come Little Children'?"

"Don't mock the Way of the Will. The path of the Cailleach is sacred, and it's an honor to walk it."

"Do something witchy," I goaded. "Prove it."

"We don't waste power," she growled, then sighed. "But we knew you'd need proof. Your mom said she strongly discouraged belief in the otherworldly or paranormal any time you expressed an interest in it."

Ow. My mom told Este that? Este—who'd met with my mother years ago, then kept a vow to her , at my expense. Whose best friend was she?

"Look at the bookcase by the door," Este told me. "The top shelf of books."

I glanced over my shoulder.

"What color are they?"

Shrugging, I looked back at her. "Brown, bound in leather, all of them."

"Look again."

The top shelf sported about two dozen thick volumes bound in candy-apple red leather. I stared, blinked, blinked again. Then

stared at Este.

"What color would you like them to be?"

"Green. But not smooth leather." I upped the ante. "I like suede."

She smirked. "Easy. Done."

This time, when I glanced at the books, I gasped, leapt from the bed, and plucked one from the shelf. It was bound in supple,

buttery soft green suede. I ran my fingers over it wonderingly.

The book turned purple while I was holding it, so shocking me that I dropped it and whirled. "How are you doing that?" Was she mesmerizing me, convincing me I was seeing different colors and textures? I hadn't drunk that much tequila—a

shot and a half so far—and I wasn't a lightweight! I had a feeling I might be drinking much more, given the strange turn of

our conversation.

"I have an affinity for transmutation. Color especially, but also substance, plus other abilities. Each witch is different. Do you like the gray walls of this bedroom?"

"No," I admitted frankly, aware I was in the minority. Gray was all the rage with interior designers. I'd never lost my obsession

with houses, poring over real estate listings online while shoveling food in my face on break, imagining the life one might

enjoy in them. Over the past few years, everything had gotten "greiged," the exact shade of the wintry Indiana sky I so despised:

depressing mud-gray splashed everywhere, on walls, floors, furniture. It baffled me. I was a sunshine/blue-sky whore. Well,

at least, I'd always wanted to be; yet another reason I found Divinity so inviting.

I said, "I think gray is a color that doesn't know what it wants to be, so rather than assertively being something, it's timidly

nothing. I despise gray. Be a color, get a life." That it was also my last name didn't elude me. I'd felt as bland as my surname.

Calm, placid Zo Grey. Never be dramatic, don't act out, don't want anything, never complain, others have it worse, hush, hush,

sweet child of mine.

Casting me a wink, Este raised her hands and, murmuring to herself, swirled them through the air. Abruptly, the walls of my

bedroom were the same soft green as the books, which beautifully offset the view beyond the French doors. I blinked, stunned,

then said, "Will they stay green?"

"Do you want them to?"

I nodded. Yes. Maybe she could do the outside of the manor, too, while she was at it—God, could she? Change the color of the entire house? Did I believe she had that kind of power, that she was a witch? My best friend, whom I'd known since we'd met in elementary school?

Este murmured softly, gestured again. "I sealed them to permanence," she said, then patted the bed for me to rejoin her. "I'll

make reparation later."

"What kind of reparation?"

"All witches have to draw power from something to control and use their magic. Light witches draw from nature and return it

in some fashion. Plant a tree, grow flowers, fertilize the earth, do an unexpected kindness, help an animal. We always return

the gift."

"And dark witches?" I asked, unable to stave off curiosity, although I didn't believe any of this. Then again, I thought uneasily,

glancing about, the walls were a completely different color. How did I explain that? I felt as if my mind were fracturing.

Magic didn't exist. Witches didn't exist. And that ghost you used to see in West Virginia? an inner voice mocked.

"Dark witches draw from any damned source they want, the richer the better, and human lives are not off the plate," Este said

coldly. "They abuse it. And don't bother to return it. They drain the world. We feed it."

I stared at her a long moment, then resumed my seat on the bed in silence. I was a cauldron of so many emotions that I was

having a difficult time identifying them, but bubbling most prevalently on the surface was anger. My mother had confided in

Este, not me. Why would she do that? Though I wasn't yet willing, even after Este's demonstration, to acknowledge that either

of us was a witch (although my gut vehemently disagreed with my brain and was mounting countless persuasive arguments), they'd

all believed it and they'd withheld that information from me. They'd had secret meetings to which I'd not been invited. How

many times had my mother hushed a question of mine, yet confided in others? It cut, deeply.

"Oh, Zo," she exclaimed, "I've so hungered to be myself around you! It's been so hard!"

"Poor you," I said coldly. "You might have told me at any time that you believed we were witches. Was your mouth broken? Oh,

definitely not. You never shut up. But you didn't tell me this."

Eyes darkening, she said sharply, "One, it's not a belief. It's a fact, and I'll happily give you more proof. I can convince you. You may not like the way I do it, but I can. Two, I didn't dare. When I told my mother about you after we met,

she hunted Joanna down at one of the houses she was cleaning, and they had a talk. Well... not quite a talk. Our mothers

had an all-out battle that night. Mom came home in full retreat mode, and nothing intimidates Dalia Hunter. She told me if

I ever mentioned witches to you again, not only would she punish me, but Joanna would do unspeakable things to me, and Mom

wouldn't be able to stop her. She was more upset than I've ever seen her. She said she'd never feared another witch, not until

she met Joanna Grey, and once she met her—"

"Okay, stop right there," I cut her off sharply. "No one feared my mother. Ever. Mom was incapable of inspiring fear. She

was sweet and kind and gentle—"

" And a Highblood Royal"—Este cut me off—"her blood magic meticulously curated from the most explosive lines. Royal houses, even

the light houses, are obsessed with their bloodlines, willing to do, become, virtually anything to enhance them. Mom said

Joanna Grey dripped power. She terrified my mother."

My mom, a Highblood Royal, from one of the nine houses the book had mentioned? Joanna Grey terrifying anyone was impossible for me to imagine. I tried to picture her with fierce emotion blazing in her eyes but couldn't. I'd never seen it. "Bullshit. Soft doe eyes," I spat. "That's all I ever saw on her face." And I was getting madder and madder about it. If my mother did have fire in her blood—fire others had seen—why didn't I ever get to see it? I might have been different, if she had been. Our lives could have been different. She could terrify Dalia Hunter, and we still had to run?

"Same, babe, same. That's all I ever saw on yours."

Stung, I said, "Then why did you like me?"

Her gaze softened. "I knew who you really were, and every now and then, I'd catch a flash of fire. Do you know that every

man you took to your bed was a witch? That alone gave me hope that you would find a way to break free and become who you were

meant to be. A very powerful witch ," she said pointedly. "And"—she frowned—"I'm not sure I wouldn't have told you, before it was too late. I'd been wrestling

with that lately."

Oh, kudos to her. She'd considered telling me. I shelved her "too late" comment for later. There was a lot I was shelving for later.

"How do you know those men were witches? What did you do, track them down?" I added a hasty caveat, "Not that I'm saying I

believe you. But if I did, what house was Mom from?" Light or dark was what I wanted to know.

"No idea. She wouldn't say, and Mom couldn't tell; we can only sense power and the intensity of it, not which way it leans.

As for your lovers, I asked you enough questions to identify them. Then I hit the same bars. Every man you selected had magic

in his blood. Some of them were damned impressive. If you hadn't gone there first, I certainly would have. You have decadent

taste."

Was that the something extra I'd always been hunting—magic in a man's blood? What I'd thought of as an indefinable edgy side, unpredictable and powerful. Did that mean Kellan was a witch? Had he known I was, too, assuming any of this was true? And, considering the amount of presence I'd felt in Criollo that night, were all the men I'd found to my liking witches? If so, why had so many gathered in a single place?

"Did the men think I was a witch?"

"They knew. Even as weak as you were, they could feel it. You felt faint to me at first, too, until I'd been around you awhile.

Then I began to feel something... enormous in you, deeply buried, tightly leashed."

Enormous like the mushroom cloud I'd felt building in the barn, that I'd feared might destroy me if I didn't do something

with it. Leashed, like a dog. Controlled. "Go on," I said tersely.

"Mom told me Joanna didn't take you through the stages of awakening your blood magic. Instead, she suppressed your power.

That's why you felt so weak to other witches, and that's what our moms fought about. Mom says suppressing a witch's power

is a mortal sin, worse than burning her alive. Your power needs to breathe, get out in the world and do things. Because if

it can't, it suffocates, day after day. You're worn down by a constant internal battle you don't even know you're fighting.

Your magic is desperate to be born, but something is blocking it. Nothing tastes particularly good; nothing angers or excites

you. You feel empty, living in a state of incessant, mild malcontent, incapable even of feeling strong discontent. Incapable

of feeling strong anything."

She'd just described how I'd felt my entire life. Bland, passionless but for my infrequent one-night stands, possessing a

shallow heart. Eternally feeling uncomfortable in my own skin, like it didn't fit right, like I'd been buttoned into someone

else's coat at the hatcheck; too small, cut wrong, restrictive and confining.

"Most suppressed witches go mad. Many kill themselves. Mom said because you were Highblood Royal, you'd either commit suicide young or be strong enough to survive it. But she never forgave your mother for doing it, and your mother never forgave her for criticizing the decision she'd made."

"Why would Mom bind my power? Assuming this is true," I added tightly. It was beginning to sound entirely too true to me.

But accepting that would mean accepting that my whole life had been a lie. I could see nothing Este stood to gain by telling

me such an elaborate falsehood. Still, either she was lying or my entire life was a lie; pick my poison.

"It is true, all of it," she insisted. "How else do you explain what I did with the books?"

I couldn't explain it, any more than I could explain lighting a candle with my will, so I evaded testily. "Let me get this

straight. You're a witch. I am, too. My mom was. And your mom is, and so is your dad?"

She nodded.

"And everyone knew but me ? And you all had cozy talks about it, and made this decision not to tell me? I'm sorry, but I'm having serious fucking problems

with this on multiple levels!"

"I would be, too. I'd be angry as hell at everyone. It doesn't make it any less true. And can I say how much I enjoy seeing

you pissed? You never got mad about anything. You never got much of anything about anything. You're no longer bound, Zo. This

is wonderful! You're fully alive! Finally."

A little late, by, like, nearly twenty-five years, in my opinion, but hey, it was just my life, not that anyone else seemed

to think so. They thought it was theirs to make decisions about, managing me, withholding information. If what she was saying was true, I'd spent my whole life as

a shadow of myself, unable to feel, to engage and appreciate life. And it was my own mother who'd sentenced me to that fate.

While talking to others about it!

Perhaps the most compelling argument in favor of what Este was telling me was how much I'd changed since Mom died. My world had gone from pale to vibrant; my senses graduated from bland to complex, observant of the subtlest nuances; my emotions had transformed from shallow to incendiary, my passions explosive, as if a sudden release valve had been opened—or a deliberate suppression removed. The dragon who'd awakened at the moment of Mom's death had never gone back to sleep. Was that my magic, my power? I shivered with a sudden chill and narrowed my eyes. "I take it you're telling me the moment Mom died, I was freed?"

"Yes. Have you been eating everything in sight? Emotions intense and shifting rapidly? Sex drive out of control?"

I gaped at her. Absolutely. "But why would Mom bind my power?" I said again.

Este shook her head, gaze sad. "No idea. That's part of what pushed my mom over the edge. Joanna offered no explanation. And

first witch lesson: your mom didn't bind your power, she suppressed it. There's a difference. Binding is done all at once.

Suppressing has to be done day after day after day. Joanna refused to say a word about who she was or why she'd suppressed

your magic. If she'd given Mom a reason, any reason, Mom would have tried to understand. Instead, Joanna threatened her, and when she wanted to be, your mother was terrifying.

You said something strange happened to you. What was it? Something witchy?"

I no longer had any intention of telling her anything about the cabin, the cryptic book that wrote itself, or the candle I'd

seemingly lit with will alone. Not until she'd given me more answers and I'd had time to mull things over.

"If this is true, how could you keep it from me, all these years?" I said heatedly. "How could you be my best friend, believing it was true, and never say a word? Didn't you think I had a right to know? Just a simple, Hey, you're a witch, and your mom won't let you have your power. Just a general damned heads-up."

"I wanted to tell you so many times!" Este protested.

"But you didn't."

"But I wanted to!"

"Intentions. Road to hell. Paved with," I said flatly.

She snapped, "There are many ways to pave a road to hell, and sometimes you don't have any good choices. You don't understand

the witching world, Zo. There are witches you don't go up against, ever, and your mother was one of them. Mom threatened me,

your mother threatened me, and Joanna Grey was the most forbidding thing I'd ever encountered in this world, until today,

Divinity, and this house. You don't know this and never will—because you're Highblood Royal, the witch other witches fear

and obey—but mere Highbloods like me, we don't mess with Royals. Ever."

She locked eyes with me, then said, with quiet intensity, "Zo, you're surrounded by Cailleach. You live in a town of witches that outsiders can't find, not even Highbloods—at least I couldn't. Divinity is one potent pot of roiling power. As we drove down Main Street, I got drunk off the magic in the air. It's on the breeze, it's in the soil. It's intoxicating. I want to go stand outside and dance, naked, in the storm of it. I want to inhale it, absorb it, channel it into creativity. I've never been in the midst of so many powerful witches. The driver told me, quite proudly, that you're the heir to the Cameron legacy, that you've inherited all this." She gestured expansively. "The Camerons are an ancient Royal light house; they've been around forever. Juniper Cameron was their matriarch, and now that she's dead, it sure looks to me like they brought you here to take her place as the head of their coven."

She paused a moment before continuing. "I thought about this a lot on the drive, after Evander told me why you were here.

About how lucky it was they found you right before she died, when they'd searched fruitlessly for an heir for so many decades.

About how determinedly your mother hid you, suppressed your power, for decades . And it led me to a deeply disturbing thought. Zo, what if this town, this coven is exactly what your mother was running

from?"