Page 7 of Waltzing With Witches

Brynn Venseter.

The paintings are stunning but covered in dust. I wipe a hand across one of them, brilliant colors showing through where I removed the thin film. Town Hall shudders, the walls trembling slightly.

Something pings deep in my chest, an insistent tug. I think the building liked that I wiped the dust off the painting. Dropping my bag, I pull my sweater over my head, grumbling when my long hair gets tangled around itself. Shifting onto my tiptoes, I wipe the painting’s surface as far as I can reach. I’m not quite tall enough, but every swipe of my sweater brings the painting to life. It’s stunning, depicting a handsome blue-skinned troll who reminds me, incredibly, of Wren’s mate Ohken, but an older, even handsomer version. He’s holding some sort of giant club with a pointy rock on the end.

He looks like a badass.

A really hot, come-to-daddy kind of badass. I’d tap that.

I jump and shove the sweater at the top of the painting, but I can’t quite reach.

Suddenly, the tile I’m standing on shifts and moves, steps forming beneath my feet to push me upward. I jerk to regain my balance, planting both hands on the wall as my heartbeat soars.

The steps still, and Town Hall settles.

I clear my throat. “Err, thanks?”

The painting in front of me swings from side to side on the wall, and somehow, I know it’s a thank you. Smiling, I reach up and use my sweater to dust the rest of the painting, including the top and a brass-plated lamp that sheds faint light on the canvas.

When that’s done, I step down to the floor and gaze at the painting in awe. It’s so much more beautiful now than at first glance. Vivid blues and brilliant greens shine from the glossy surface. The handsome troll male in the painting grins as if he knows the world’s best-kept secret. I’d love to know his story.

I look up the hall at dozens of equally dusty portraits. I want to know all of their stories. Reaching out, I rub my fingers along the wall as I peer around me.

“How do you feel about cleaning up the rest of these paintings? Would you mind lifting me up? Unless you’re busy, of course,” I tack on at the end. I don’t have a great sense of Town Hall’s personality, but—

Every door along the hall opens and closes rapidly, a cacophony of sound echoing and bouncing off the walls around me.

That’s a yes. Somehow I know it. Grinning, I grab a couple tees out of my bag and throw them over my shoulder.

Time to dust.

CHAPTER THREE

MORGAN

The sound of a throat clearing wakes me from a deep sleep. I shoot straight up in the plush fireside armchair I dropped into last night, leaping to my feet. But when I glance around the Keeper’s office—the only room I could even remotely find a comfortable-looking chair in—I don’t see anyone.

Slowly, the office door swings open, and the Keeper steps in, both hands slung casually into the pockets of black jeans. Like always, he’s wearing a black turtleneck as well, but the material is thin enough to reveal miles of taut muscle.

God, every time I see him, my throat dries up, and I have to force myself not to pant. But, simultaneously, I always want to bitch-slap him for being so fucking off-putting.

I can’t read him today, though. His expression is completely neutral. He takes another step into the room, looking around until ruby-red eyes fall on his desk. Can he tell I sat there last night? I might have looked through the drawers too. They were all empty, though.

His colorless lips pull into a half smile, or maybe it’s a sneer. Hard to tell with him. Dark eyes flick from the desk to me, and he removes his hands from his pockets, crossing his arms. Nerves prickle through me, and I fucking hate that. I’m a confident woman, but everything about him puts me on guard. I channel those nerves into anger. I’m allowed to be here.

“What are you doing here, Morgan?” He delivers the question softly, but an undercurrent of steel threads his tone.

“How’d you even know I was here?” I bark back. “It’s not off-limits, is it?” I bite the inside of my cheek as I deliver the snark. Town Hall probably isn’t off-limits, but I have to imagine his actual office is. Except he’s never here, so…

I’m overthinking this.

He lifts one elegant, black-nailed hand and gestures. “Town Hall called me a little while ago to let me know someone was here. I thought—” his voice trails off, eyes moving to the window before returning to me. He sighs. “I’m not sure who I thought would be in my office, but here we are.”

“Indeed,” I purr. I’ve had a long night, and I’m in a mood to argue.

For a long moment, he watches me, dark eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to decide what to do.

Eventually, his gaze falls to my duffel on the ground, and he cocks his head to the side. “Why are you here and not at the Annabelle?”

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