Read on for an excerpt of WICCHING HOUR The Sea Wicche Chronicles

Opening night of The Sea Wicche gallery and tea bar was finally here. I'd been planning it since I was little and saw the abandoned cannery for the first time. At first, I wanted to live here, but when I got a little older and would sneak down here to break in and run around, leaping over stagnant ponds of dirty water and playing with rusty machinery, I saw it for the potential it had. I started bringing my sketches with me, taping them up on the walls.

And now look at me. The cannery remodeled into a huge, forty-foot-tall gallery with my studio and apartment taking a quarter of the space. The floors were dyed concrete that looked like a deep ocean blue. I'd painted the walls to look like water as well, from deep sea to surf.

If one looked closely enough, high on the wall above the front door, in the deepest part of the ocean, there lurked a sea monster, watching and waiting. The exterior of the gallery told us he wasn't waiting long. I'd built thirty-foot long tentacles coming from the water under the cannery, appearing to be pulling the gallery into the ocean. It gave the local fisherman quite a start when they'd first seen them.

I'd also painted one whole side of the building to look as though the gallery were still an old condemned building that had tentacles breaking through the rotting boards. There'd been a number of articles written about the exterior of my gallery, which probably had something to do with why there were so many people packed in here tonight.

On the one hand, I'd done it. Having my own art gallery was a dream come true. On the other, having all these people touching and judging my pieces was making my stomach churn and causing my head to pound.

I don't do well in crowds. I'm a Cassandra wicche, meaning I can see the future. And the past, come to that. I'm an empath, who keeps covered neck to fingertip and toe, because psychometry is also a gift of mine. I wear gloves always, as I don't want to touch someone and drop into a vision, learning every hidden thing in their lives. Unfortunately, far too many people here tonight seem intent on shaking my hand.

What I hadn't anticipated, though, were the hugs. Yes, my body was covered, but my face wasn't. Hugging meant my highly sensitive skin touching cheeks or hair. I didn't want to drop into a vision, so my boyfriend Declan, the werewolf Alpha of Monterey, and my agent Mary Beth, were flanking me, keeping people at a safe distance.

I'd been working with Mary Beth for some years. She was half fae, like me, but her other half was human. She was one of the most respected agents in the art world. She had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of all art. No matter the medium, the time period, or the location, she knew it. Most saw her as a hard-ass agent who knew all the major players and always got her clients the best deals, but I knew her as my slyly funny friend who was also my biggest champion, refusing to let me undersell myself.

She'd arrived four days ago because she didn't trust me to price my own art. She was clearly right to do that, as I would have gone much lower. As it was, pieces were still flying out the door and I was going to be set for a few years.

"Okay, shorty, I see a couple of live ones," Mary Beth said. "Where did your mom go?" She glanced around and then made a quick movement with her hand. "She was talking to your Aunt Hester. Okay, Mom's on her way." She glared at Declan. "Do not leave her side." She glided off, the masses separating before her.

In my defense, I'm not short. Am I as tall as my six-and-a-half-foot, super hot, bearded boyfriend? No. No, I was not. I'm five-three and a half, which is a totally respectable height. Did I usually round up to five-four? Of course. I was simplifying.

Mary Beth's mom was a beautiful Black woman who was herself an artist. I'd met her once when I went to New York to work with Mary Beth. Her mom was free and funny and open to the world. She was also a gifted sculptor. I was pretty sure Mary Beth's father was a warrior elf, given she was at least six feet tall, with long, white-blonde hair, luminous golden-brown skin, and piercing gray eyes.

She arrowed through the crowd, stopping beside an elderly couple in windbreakers and walking shoes who looked as though they'd wandered in by accident.

"Do you know who they are," Declan asked quietly, his arm protectively around my waist.

I shrugged. "No idea."

My mom stepped in front of a wild-eyed man coming straight at me. Her fingers twitched at her side and he turned sharply, wandering off.

"Thanks," I said.

Because it was opening night, we also had waiters weaving through the gallery, offering wine and appetizers. Mom was sipping the wine, but I couldn't handle alcohol on a queasy stomach.

"I worry, darling," she said. "I know you've always wanted your own gallery, but this gives people too much access to you. And that security guard you hired isn't watching people to make sure they don't steal. What is he even doing?" My mom was used to being in charge and I'm sure this all felt too chaotic to her.

"You look beautiful," I said. "I told you the blue dress would be perfect tonight." Mom was gorgeous to begin with, with shoulder-length black hair, fair skin, and Corey green eyes. It had taken some doing, but I had talked her out of her very conservative black suit and into a flowing, wraparound silk dress in blues and greens.

"You do look very pretty, Ms. Corey," Declan said.

Staring out at the crowd, she said, "Yes, well, that's nice to hear, but I'd rather discuss your security."

"Oh, that's right," I said, bouncing on the balls of my feet. "I haven't told you. Bracken and I created a ward. If someone tries to steal one of my pieces, tries to hide it and walk out—that part's important—it disappears from their pocket or bag and reappears in its original spot."

Mom's focus snapped to me. "What? How—that's amazing. You need to share it with me so I can share it with the family. Excellent," she said, nodding. "No more pilfered goods in our shops." She thought a moment. "So, is your guard just for show?"

"No," I said. "That's Carter, Detective Osso's younger brother." Like Declan, he was six and a half feet tall, with shoulders even broader than a werewolf's. He was a dark-skinned Black man who, like his brother, wore a perpetual scowl. "He's working on a PhD in Marine Biology. We'll only be open a couple days a week, so it won't cut into his dissertation time too much. The ward should keep my artwork safe. He's here to watch people."

"Oh," Mom said. "Good. But I still don't see how you can possibly make a living only being open two or three days a week."

"And by appointment," I said. We'd already had this discussion a few times. "Collectors prefer private viewings. Anyway," I said, trying to change the subject, "that earpiece Carter's wearing? It's not hooked up to a security system or whatever. He's listening to audiobooks."

Declan laughed. "Nice."

"Are you sure he can handle one of your obsessed stalkers?" Mom asked.

Carter turned to us from his spot across the gallery, eyebrows raised.

Leaning into my Mom, I whispered, "He's a bear shifter. He can handle any of them; probably all of them."

He nodded and went back to surveying the room.

"Mary Beth's walking them to Cecil 2," I whispered.

"Who?" Mom followed my gaze, studying the couple for a moment. "Oh. Your agent is very good, darling. The Winslows look like middle-class tourists, but the wife's from serious old money and the husband used it to make them even more. They're committed philanthropists, so at least they're doing a lot of good with it." Mom elbowed me. "You should feel honored they're here. They live on the East Coast. Connecticut, I believe."

"How do you know all this stuff about them?" I asked.

"I read an article on the charity work they do. I never would have recognized them if your agent hadn't singled them out."

"Aaaand there they go." My hopes sank. Not only did they not buy my five-foot glass rendering of Cecil, they didn't even pick up a starfish paperweight. Damn.

Mary Beth moved back to us, the crowd parting and then coming back together behind her. "Sybil, that dress is gorgeous on you," she said as she went behind the cash wrap.

My aunt Elizabeth's kids Frank and Faith were working the cash register, ringing up and wrapping purchases.

Mary Beth went into a drawer and pulled out a roll of Sold stickers.

"Did they buy something?" I whispered, hope bubbling up.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, you sweet summer child. It would be easier to tell you what they didn't buy. Cecil is gone. They've put in an order for one hundred and seventy-five of the large octopuses." At my look of shock, she said, "I explained you'd need time for an order that large. They're planning to give them to the top executives in their companies as holiday gifts. I told them we could deliver by November fifteenth. That works, doesn't it?"

She was referring to the twelve-inch octopuses. There was only one five-foot rendering of Cecil. I considered and then nodded.

"We'll hire a team when it's time to ship. We do not want them arriving with broken tentacles. They also bought three of the paintings, seven of the framed photos—your underwater series—and an assortment of this and that. They want to come back tomorrow before opening so they can browse properly. We'll pull out any of the big pieces you still have in the fire room for them to see." She stopped. "No. We'll take them to the fire room so they can see what you do. That's better. They get to feel themselves close with the artist. Ten tomorrow morning. I'll get here first." She looked out over the crowd. "It's going well. Let me get these stickers on.

"And we have another collector who just walked in. He's going to be very annoyed the Winslows got here first." She hurried off, stickers still in hand.

I was reeling, doing math in my head.

Declan picked me up and kissed me soundly. "Congratulations, Ursula. Looks like The Sea Wicche is a success." When he put me down, I had to hold on so my knees didn't buckle.

"I'm so proud of you, Arwyn. And you were obviously right about only needing to be open a couple of days a week." Mom looked as dazed as I was feeling.

I felt it when he walked in. The air changed. Mom made a noise and I followed her gaze to the door. He'd come. He'd promised he'd come, and he did. Dad.

Larger than life, he stood just inside the door, taking it all in. He wore a dark gray suit with a snowy white shirt and a watery blue tie. His hair was cut short, making his aqua blue eyes stand out even more.

I grabbed Mom and Declan's hands, giving patrons a mental push out of the way so we could go to him. Mom resisted, but I pulled harder. She hadn't seen him since before I was born, since she'd done what the family said and broken up with him. To say this meeting was fraught was an understatement.

He met us halfway across the room. "Daughter, I like your gallery very much." He may have been speaking to me, but his eyes were on Mom. "Sybil, it's good to see you."

She swallowed and then nodded.

His focus swung to Declan. "And you. Are you strong enough to protect my child?"

Declan said, "I am," just as I said, "I'm strong enough on my own, thanks."

"That's true," Dad said, taking my gloved hand. "You have a lot of me in you." He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and moved us away from the other two. "Show me what you've created."

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