Page 30 of The Witch is Back

Emma checked the laugh at the description because the possibility filled her with dread. She settled for: “We’ll see,” having heard the overused parenting phrase on a human show years back. Turned out, it was overused for a reason.

She checked the time. Bastian hadn’t said when he’d show up, but he’d been gone for four hours. He was bound to be there soon; she’d texted him the address.

“Is he sleeping in your bed?”

Emma almost dropped the phone. “Sloane!”

“My aunt says girls shouldn’t sleep with boys in the same bed.”

“Your aunt is right.” Even if it did bring to mind an image of...

Well. Never mind that.

She cleared her throat. “He’ll be sleeping on the couch. It’s his first night and he’ll need me to show him where everything is. It might run late, which is why I have to cancel.”

“Oh.” Sloane chewed on this, her free hand fiddling with her brown bob. Emma had tried to convince her not to cut it a month ago, but the girl had seen a celebrity she liked with a bob and that had been that. She looked cute, but far too grown-up for Emma’s liking.

“I’d prefer to go to the movies, Jellybean,” Emma said softly, using the forbidden nickname she’d given Sloane years back. She stifled a smile at Sloane’s long-suffering look. “Tomorrow, yeah? I’ll bring you the cupcake I made for your doing so well on your test.”

They hung up not long after. Emma fell back on the bed, stroking Chester’s head as he wriggled his way up her side to place his heavy head on her chest with a contented sigh. She stared up at the ceiling.

Already she’d had to disappoint someone she loved because Bastian had come back.

Just this once, she vowed with a frown. Nothing else would change. Her world would not revolve around him. Not again.

CHAPTER 7

Bastian had to admit he’d been curious about where Emmaline lived. This was her hidden oasis, the world she used to escape from her mom, from witches, from society. He wondered what Emmaline’s home would say about her.

The first thing to note was that she lived in a cozy, if somewhat shabby building. Presumably when she’d moved from New Orleans, she’d not only stopped relying on Clarissa for a home, but money as well. Emmaline had cut herself off from everything familiar. She’d got out. As had he.

And yet they’d both ended up exactly in the same place.

The second thing to note was that her apartment was small, mostly one room, with things everywhere. The front door opened into a short entranceway, where an end table with a photo frame and a glass bowl for odds and ends sat below coat hooks that housed a couple of jackets and Chester’s leash. The hallway extended into an open-plan living space, a beige L-shaped couch sitting on a patterned rug marking off the main area, and a kitchen just off from it. A breakfast bar slid in between them, stools topped with plush leather pushed in neatly. Bookcases lined the walls, the occupants piled haphazardly, some books, some DVDs, a small potted plant that was thriving, unsurprisingly. A large TV sat on an oak unit, more plants around it. Picture frames hung on walls painted a light gold and pieces of glass art squeezed in where there was space around the room.

The third thing to note was that she didn’t like him in her space. Ever since she’d let him in five minutes ago, she’d been watching him drift around. She hadn’t spoken since greeting him at the door and he could see her nerves, like a fine row of strings in the air he could pluck.

Charm her, he reminded himself.

He glanced at the closest picture. It held a photo of Emmaline and her two co-owners, all laughing, a party hat perched on Emmaline’s head—like the one she’d been wearing the other day.

She still celebrated her birthday, then. Witches might not celebrate them as a rule, but he’d always made a point to get her a cake, buy her a present, sing. And her eyes would be less haunted for a while. He’d hoped someone would carry on the tradition when he’d run. He hadn’t wanted to think of her alone on her birthdays. Even if...well, even if.

Birthdays were not a comfortable topic, so he moved on and glanced at the next photo frame. Thank the Goddess. “The pyramids?”

“Sorry?”

He turned, gestured to the frame. “You’ve been to the pyramids?” He’d seen them three years ago, up close as he’d portalled inside, and remembered it having been an almost holy experience.

“Ah, no.” She combed her fingers through her hair, leaving it disheveled. Cute. “I’d like to go, but...” She trailed off, then caught her shoulders, pushed them back. Challenging him to pity her.

He absorbed that without reaction. When he looked closer at the photo, he realized it had been cut from some kind of travel magazine. “You should go. You’d like it.” He’d said it automatically, but he wasn’t sure what “Emma” liked. He’d known Emmaline, or thought he had, but this was someone else entirely. “Well, if you like breathing in air so hot you can almost taste it, and bugs as big as your nose.”

She didn’t blink. “You’ve been.” It wasn’t a question, but he answered with a nod.

“Yeah, and honestly, it’s great. The hieroglyphics alone are something to see. And my friend, Ethan, lives just off the banks of the Nile near Cairo—he has his home glamoured so the tourists don’t stumble onto him. He’s got these stunning old tomes. You should see them; some are so brittle, you’re scared to even go near them but the imagery...” He glanced up, trailed off.

Her gaze had turned puzzled, as if he’d begun speaking a foreign language halfway through.

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