Page 69 of Waltzing With Witches

I clear my throat. Pietro turns with a questioning look. When I point to the jar, he raises both brows and then throws his head back to laugh. “Ah! I suspect you are wondering if this is something similar to the troll whip. What a surprise that was, eh?”

He’s referencing the time we discovered that troll whip was actually whipped troll jizz. Not only was it jizz, but it came from Wren’s now-mate, Ohken. Totally a monster tradition that does not translate well into human terms. Jizz as a coffee topper is completely inappropriate.

I shudder, thinking about the sheer number of times I drank a latte topped with the frothy sweet cream.

Pietro returns to his latte making, humming as he pours liquid from a variety of containers into his mixer. I slip the ziol over my neck and tuck it into my shirt, watching him work. A minute or two later, he turns to me with a grin, pouring the steaming mixture into a to-go cup.

When he’s done, he slides it over the countertop with a grin. “A few drops of your blood will be enough,” he says. “Any more than that, and he might go insane.”

I dip my head in thanks, but as I do, an odd sensation hits me. I jolt, looking around to see if anyone’s close to me.

Pietro leans over the bar. “Morgan, are you alright?”

I set the cup down and press both hands flat to the bar top.

There!

The building’s hurt somewhere deep. Closing my eyes, I focus on the pain, twisting and following it through blackness. I blow out a breath as my palms heat against the wood. My senses blur, sound and smell diminishing to nothing. Pain zings up my fingertips, but identifying the problem is out of reach.

Without thinking, I spin away from Pietro and dash toward the back of the coffee shop. I’ve seen a set of stairs here before. I think someone shouts my name, but I’m too focused on her, on her pain, on her desperate call for help.

I yank a door open and run headlong down a flight of dark stairs. It’s not until I get to the bottom that I realize I don’t know where the lights are.

“A little help?” I call out.

A light flickers on and spins, pointing toward the back wall. I run past boxes of cups and lids and a stack of wooden chests, slamming my palms against the wide flat stones of her foundation.

Electric energy shoots up my spine, and I scream. Something’s digging away at her, something dark, something deep underground.

I yank my hand from the foundation as Pietro and his brother, Alessandro, rush down the stairs.

“Call the Keeper,” I shout into my comm watch.

“Mor—”

“Get to Higher Grounds now!” I snap, disconnecting the moment I’m done. I turn to the vampire brothers. “Call Richard, Alo, and Shepherd!”

They stare at me, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Now!” I shout.

The coffee house creaks around us, letting out a terrible groan. Pietro’s face goes white, and he lifts his wrist to speak urgently into his watch.

I throw myself against the wall, whispering to my magic. It’s in the tips of my fingers, in the heat that radiates into the stones through me.

So much darkness lies on the other side of this wall.

Sound, scent, sight, hearing. They all disappear as I stay with the coffee shop, reassuring her, trying desperately to comfort her.

I jerk when a body wraps around mine, pulling my hands from the stones.

“Nooo!” I shout. Around us, the coffee house shudders and heaves, floorboards above us creaking.

“I’m here,” Abe murmurs into my ear. “We’re all here. I need you to step back, Morgan.”

My senses are blurry. Someone calls my name. Another hand reaches for mine and pulls me to the opposite wall. Darkness blots my vision, and I shout. It’s a wing, a leathery wing. Right in front of me.

Muddled thoughts clear in a second, and I peek under my brother-in-law's wing. Across the basement, Abe stands with Richard, Dirk, and Alo. Pietro and Alessandro stand opposite them, swords in their hands.

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