Chapter 5

Bowen had spent enough years studying magic to know that there were larger forces operating in the universe. He’d seen them

up close, after all, and studied them, tried to learn their secrets. He might not understand them all, but there was no doubt

that he believed .

And now, as he watched a blond Tamsyn turn around and give him her fakest smile, he also believed that those same forces clearly hated his fucking guts.

“Bowen Penhallow,” Sir Madoc boomed as Tamsyn slipped her hand into Bowen’s, “may I introduce...” The older man frowned,

his vaguely purple face darkening a bit. “Sorry, love, what was your name again?”

“Anna Ripley,” Tamsyn said smoothly, still shaking Bowen’s hand. Her palm was ice-cold against his, and Bowen wondered if

that was from nerves or if it was just that the Merediths clearly thought things like “heating” were for lesser mortals.

“Anna,” Bowen echoed slowly as he studied her face.

Tamsyn’s brown hair was concealed beneath a bright blond bob, and while her eyes were just as warm and as dark as ever, they were now behind a pair of large glasses with bright red frames. Her shoes were red, too, bloodred, the heels so high and so thin that he wondered that she hadn’t already pitched face-first onto the stone floor. They made her tall enough to almost look him dead in the eye, and as Bowen watched her now, he thought her gaze was communicating something like Please don’t cock this up for me, mate.

Only... more American, obviously.

“Excellent, excellent,” Sir Madoc blustered, gesturing for both of them to continue down the hallway to a small kitchen.

This was clearly the older part of the house, the wood-beamed ceiling low, the brick around the fireplace charred with centuries

of soot, but it was cozy in its way. A fire crackled in the hearth, and there was a steaming pot of tea on the rough wooden

table in the center of the room along with a few mismatched china cups.

Sir Madoc walked over to them now, pouring two cups before producing a flask from his jacket and adding a healthy dollop to

each. He went to cap the flask, then paused, and as Bowen and Tamsyn stood there just inside the doorway, Sir Madoc tilted

the entire container up and drained it.

“Ah,” he said, placing the empty flask back in his jacket. “That’s more like it. Now, if you two will excuse me, much to do,

much to do, but please, enjoy your tea. Cocktails will be served in the library at seven, followed by dinner at eight. Miss

Ripley, I’ll have your things sent to the Blue Room, I think. No. No, Yellow. Yes, Yellow Room, much nicer views, closer to

the gardens.”

Walking back toward them, Sir Madoc gave both Tamsyn and Bowen hearty claps on the shoulder, and then he was gone, the gloom of the hallway seeming to swallow him up.

Leaving Tamsyn and Bowen alone.

For a moment, they both just stood there, the only sounds the shifting of the logs in the fireplace and the wind whistling

through the eaves.

Tamsyn broke first, sighing as she walked over to the table in those high, high heels, each step clicking loudly in the quiet

room.

“I need to be fortified to have this conversation,” she said, picking up the cup and sitting down on one of the stools circling

the table.

Bowen sat as well, the fragile cup warm in his hand as he took a sip. The splash of whisky Sir Madoc had poured in started

a pleasant simmer in his veins. Tamsyn was watching him warily, but Bowen let the silence spool out a bit before finally saying,

“You look... different.”

Tamsyn turned her head so sharply that the edges of that very geometrical haircut swung like pendulums over her shoulders.

“That’s it?” she said, raising her eyebrows beneath the platinum bangs. “You find me here, obviously on a job, and all you

have to say is ‘you look different’?”

“Not all I have to say, just the first thing,” Bowen countered. “The second is pretty obvious, I’d think.”

“What am I doing here?” she guessed, propping her cheek on her hand, and Bowen reminded himself that he was annoyed with her and that was not bloody fucking adorable.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

She heaved another sigh, ruffling her bangs. “Do you want the short version or the long version?”

“The true one. Be honest with me,” he said, lowering his head to look into her eyes.

Tamsyn seemed to deflate, slightly, her fist sliding away from her cheek. “It’s very uncool that you do that,” she told him.

“The whole... earnest thing. With the eyes and the voice and the...” She waved a hand over her face. Bowen had no idea

what she meant by that, but ignored it as she said, “I’m here on behalf of a client, obviously.”

“I’m your only client now,” he replied.

She was too good and too quick to give away much, but Bowen saw it, the brief flash of guilt in her eyes, the lower lip caught

between her teeth for an instant.

“Tam—” he began, and she rolled her eyes, throwing up her hands with a clatter of gold bangles.

“You are my only client in the sense that I only currently work for you, but I worked with a lot of people before I met you, Bowen, and sometimes a girl likes to flex her skills a bit, is all. I was on the site that I

use to find artifacts—”

“There’s a website for that?”

She held up one hand, and for the first time Bowen noticed her nails were the same scarlet as her outfit. “There’s a website for everything. Unfortunately. Anyway, I saw something interesting. I decided that since you didn’t need me in December, I might as well take a little freelance work, and said freelance work involves this walking nightmare of a place.”

Bowen grunted and drained the rest of his tea.

As he sat the empty cup back on the table, he reminded himself that feeling angry was normal. What Tamsyn did, acquiring magical

artifacts for the highest bidder, was dangerous. It made things harder for all witches, and he was a witch, right?

So yes, perfectly fine to feel irritated. Frustrated.

Natural to be curious, too. What on earth might be in this house that someone would pay Tamsyn’s prices to get it?

And he was curious, just like he was angry and frustrated.

But the worst part, the thing that bothered him the most, was the feeling underneath those other, perfectly rational ones.

He was hurt.

Why hadn’t she told him she was going to take another job? No, she didn’t owe it to him as a coworker, maybe, but as a friend—

Bowen slammed the door shut on that line of thinking.

Not helpful right now.

“So you went back on our deal,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “Unless ‘exclusive’ means something else to non-witches?”

The corners of her mouth turned down, eyes blinking behind those huge glasses. “No,” she said. “Or... well, not exactly.

This is a one-time thing, Bowen. One last job.”

“That cliché?”

Her scowl deepened. “A cliché for a reason . Because it’s enough money not to ever have to do any other kinds of jobs again. It’s a No More Noodz job, Bowen.”

Bowen had... questions, lots of them, but for now, he focused on the simplest one: “How much money?”

He could actually see her thinking about lying to him. Something in the way her gaze slid away just for a heartbeat and the

sudden tapping of her heel against the rung of the stool.

But then she shook her head and laid both hands flat on the tabletop, a cabochon ruby winking at him. “Starts at a million.”

“Dollars?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.”

More than he’d thought. More than he’d ever would’ve guessed, if he were honest.

And that worried him. People didn’t go around offering that kind of cash for a ceremonial goblet or a bit of bewitched crystal.

Whatever Tamsyn was here to get, it had to have serious magic attached to it.

Tamsyn must’ve picked up what he was thinking from his expression, because she leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper:

“It’s a piece of jewelry. Some ugly brooch called YSeren.”

“The Star,” Bowen translated, and she nodded, pulling her phone out of the little handbag still dangling on her shoulder.

“See?” she said, showing him the screen.

The brooch was definitely ugly, a gaudy cluster of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, and Bowen was slightly relieved that he’d never heard of the thing before, never seen it. He’d spent his life eyeballs-deep in the arcane—if this thing were dangerous, surely he would know about it.

“What, no gruff warning?” Tamsyn asked, pulling the phone back. “No long and gruesome legend about how this brooch actually

melts eyeballs and flays skin or something?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Bowen replied, scratching the side of his neck. While he’d kept his beard, he’d cleaned it up a

little for this wedding, something Tamsyn only just seemed to be noticing.

He didn’t miss it, the way her eyes moved over his face now, just like he hadn’t missed the little flare of... something

in her gaze that hadn’t just been panic when she’d turned around and seen him standing there in the hallway.

For the first time, it occurred to him that he and Tamsyn would be in this house for the next few days, tucked into this dark

and gloomy castle in the Welsh countryside. There would be roaring fires, and walks through the woods, and probably more fucking

mistletoe, and yeah, Bowen suddenly realized he had a lot more to worry about on this trip than Tamsyn attempting to steal

a piece of jewelry.

Clearing his throat, Bowen sat up straighter, his hands clasped in front of him. “You’ll need my help,” he told her. “Getting

that thing. If it belongs to the Merediths, then they’ve probably done Rhiannon only knows what kind of magic on it.”

Tamsyn frowned but didn’t object.

At least not out loud.

Instead, she asked, “Are you friends with them? Is that why you’re here?”

“Never met them,” Bowen said with a shrug, and the silence stretched out between them for several loud ticks of the clock.

“Soooo...” Tamsyn drawled, propping her chin in her hand. “No more to that, then? No explanation, no backstory, for what

you’re doing here?”

He thought about telling her the truth, thought about mentioning Declan and the whole mess, but instead he heard himself say,

“Representing my family. Old witch family shite, basically.”

Tamsyn nodded, those crazy earrings of hers swaying again, and opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, there was

a distant howling from somewhere in the house that had her bolting up in her seat, her face going a little pale.

The sound rose: a thin, keening noise that could’ve been mistaken for the wind if it didn’t make your blood freeze and every

hair on your body stand on end.

Then it suddenly stopped, and the silence was somehow even eerier than the noise had been.

“What...” Tamsyn started, then stopped, swallowed hard, and began again. “What was that?”

Bowen had asked himself that same thing when he’d heard the wailing noise not ten minutes after he’d arrived. He’d also wondered

why the third-floor hallway was so cold you could see your breath.

By the time he’d seen an antique vase rise about an inch or so off a rosewood end table in the library, he’d understood.

“Ghost,” he told Tamsyn now, and she turned those wide brown eyes back on him, her lips parting.

Sighing, Bowen sunk lower on his stool. “So we have a wedding to witness, a brooch to steal, and on top of that, place is

haunted as fuck.”