Page 29 of Muddled Magic

Redbud, Indiana, USA.

Population: 2,073.

Open Magic.

That was it. No magical incidences, nothing of note whatsoever. It was just a small town in the middle of nowhere.

It’s perfect.

PART TWO

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

~ Present day ~

Red flames spilled over the iron grate of the fireplace and onto the slate hearth stones, clawing up the stone-and-mortar sides to gnaw and scorch the underside of the wooden mantlepiece.

And just when my morning had been going so well. First, waking up to find out that lumbersnack of a shifter had spent the night with me, and second, making the discovery of what could finally break the curse on the family grimoire. Plus, those pancakes I’d made for breakfast had been on point, and nothing set up a hearth witch’s day better than a comforting plate of carbohydrates.

Of course the hearth would choose this exact moment to spew out the red flames that I’d only ever seen once before.

My little farmhouse in the middle of nowhere was under attack.

They’ve found me.

“Get back!” Lewellyn shouted. The wolf shifter grabbed my arm and dragged me away from the raging heat, around the hole in the hallway floor and into the dining room.

“Misty,” Sawyer whimpered from where he was tucked into my side, shielded from the ravenous hearth fires. “The windows.”

He and Lewellyn had drawn the curtains while I’d pried up the floorboards in the hallway to extract the grimoire and the Big Nasty’s claw from the crawlspace, and now, shadowy shapes were flashing on the opposite side of the gauzy fabric. Those shapes couldn’t get inside, despite the fact that there was no longer glass in the panes, because the magic of the hearth had sealed those breaches with force fields. However, nothing was stopping those shadows from converging at my front door for a blitz attack.

“It’s okay,” I said, though there was a tremor in my voice. “The farmhouse is warded, and the hearth—”

The farmhouse shivered as whoever was on the opposite side of the door released their first volley. A second one followed almost immediately after, and cracks tore through the drywall, fracturing straight up to the second floor.

The wolf shifter released me as he squared himself towards the door, shrugging out of his jacket.

“Stay behind me,” he warned in a hushed voice. “When they blow the door, I can’t get cut, but you can.”

When, not if.

“Lass,” came a sudden whisper-shout.

I whirled, stifling a surprised yelp as a hob poked his head up through the hole in the floorboards. His face was smeared with wood ashes like he was wearing battle camouflage, his long red hat and hunter-green tunic smudged with dirt as if he’d been crawling around underground.

“Roland!” I gasped. “Get out of here.”

He shook his head, instead rising up on tiptoe to extend his hand and gesturing to me hurry over to him.

The farmhouse rattled and groaned under its third direct strike.

“Not much time,” Lewellyn hissed.

“Come on, lass,” the leader of the hobs urged. “Let’s get you out of here. Into the tunnels!”

“It’s what they’d least expect from a hearth witch,” the wolf shifter said, “using your own hearth as a decoy instead of your primary defensive position. Go! I’ll hold them off.”

Had this been any other time, I would’ve grabbed a bottle of Riesling and set my phone on silent to go and enjoy unraveling this new secret, but now…

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