Page 9 of Waltzing With Witches

I want to. But I don’t want to from just anyone.

Only her.

And the longer she’s in Ever, the higher my bloodlust stokes.

I’ve been holding my breath for a solid ten minutes at this point.

As we exit into the hallway, movement out of the corner of my eye brings me to a halt. All the paintings on the wall have begun swinging from side to side on their hooks.

I pause quickly, but as I do, Morgan runs smack into me, her lithe body pressing against my back. My shirt’s fabric is thin enough for me to feel the softness of her breasts against my shoulder blades.

She lets out a displeased-sounding grunt and steps back.

That fucking blood.

I start breathing.

Cherries. Chocolate. Candlelight.

The paintings stop swinging. I glance around the hallway. “Yes?”

The ancient oil paintings take up their swinging again.

Another odd anomaly with the buildings in town. Awareness prickles the back of my neck, sending a surge of coolness down my spine. New and different is bad as far as I’m concerned. Town Hall and I don’t communicate. This building, in particular, has always been very silent.

I consider the alerts that came in this morning to notify me of someone’s presence in my office. Maybe something’s wrong with the monitoring system. I’ll have to pull the wiring and check it when I get home.

Morgan clears her throat, drawing my attention. “She’s trying to show you that we dusted all the paintings.”

I turn, her bag still slung over my shoulder. “You what?” I glance around at the swaying paintings. They look the same to me.

“We dusted last night,” Morgan says dryly. “These beautiful paintings were covered in dust.”

I shrug. “We don’t use Town Hall all that often.”

Morgan’s expression goes cold and assessing. She crosses her arms, a move that lifts her round breasts high. I bite the inside of my cheek to avoid looking down at them.

“There’s no need for regular cleaning if we’re not using the building,” I say, stating the obvious.

“I disagree,” she says vehemently. “This building is arguably the most important one in town; you shouldn’t treat her like that. Not that you care,” she tacks on with a roll of her eyes.

I cant my head to one side, examining her. Her cheeks are flushed pink, her eyes narrowed and hard. Her body’s tense. These are all signs she’s mad. But I can’t sort out why she’d be upset about the state of dust in a building that’s rarely used.

“Explain,” I direct. “I don’t understand why you care about this.”

It’s not in my nature to ask people to help me see their perspective. Keeper training zaps any need a Keeper has to seek consensus among our peers. While I have a leadership group whose partnership I value, I have the ultimate say about what goes on in my haven. I have to in order to be effective in this role.

Around us, the paintings stop their trajectory, stilling on their hooks.

Morgan’s arms go wide, and she gestures around the hall. “Because you’re responsible for it! Because it’s the heart of this town, or it should be. It’s Town Hall, for God’s sake. Can you not see how it needs care like everything else?”

I lick my lips. The building is as still and silent as ever. It occurs to me that she might be disappointed, and that’s why she’s gone silent.

“Tell her she looks beautiful,” Morgan hisses. “Make some kind of a comment, you emotionless cretin.”

“This is ridic—”

“Say it right now,” she commands under her breath.

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