Page 73 of Bewicched

“Both. I meant yours, but the one you gave me smells like you, which is nice.”

“This one was given to me by Aunt Syl when I moved in here, as a housewarming gift. The yarn is soft and every color of the ocean. I think she commissioned a woman who’s a master weaver. Look, she even added waves to her pattern.”

“Hm, beautiful.” He rubbed the blanket between his fingers and then turned off the muted basketball game so we could sleep.

After a few minutes, I began to drift.

“You—”

I flinched.

“Sorry. Never mind,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

“It’s okay. I’m awake. What were you saying?” Moonlight shone through the windows, giving us a night-light in the dark.

“Nothing. I was just thinking. That’s important to you, isn’t it? Commissioning artisans, rather than buying in a store?”

“I’d be a hell of a hypocrite if it wasn’t important to me. I make my living as an artist. So, when choosing what to buy, I make sure other artists can make a living as well.” I shrugged one shoulder. “Plus, I like unique things. There’s something to be said for the ease and speed of ordering things through big online companies, but interesting and unique are more important to me than speed and ease.”

“Hmm.”

“It must be the same for you, right? You don’t order mass-produced furniture. You make it yourself.” And he had a gift for it. “You seem to have a real affinity for wood.”

“That was my aunt’s doing. She wanted me to have a male influence in my life and there was an old man who lived next door to the little house we were renting. He was retired, no kids. A little grumbly, but you could tell that under that was kindness. He’d had a career in woodworking and still tinkered in his garage. My aunt asked him if he’d be willing to teach me some basics.

“I could tell at first he wasn’t too keen on the idea, but after a couple of Saturday afternoons, he started planning projects for us that would require my coming over more often. I made a mail sorter and a birdhouse, a skateboard and a bench. Eventually, he taught me to cut mortise and tenon joints, dovetail joints, so I could graduate to tables and chairs.

“I loved the planning and building. And hanging out with Edgar—he insisted I called him by his first name.” While he spoke, he began to absently coil my damp curls around his finger.

“Anyway, I used to get in trouble in school. A lot. Talking, constantly getting out of my seat, not focusing on classwork. No one was thinking werewolf then—I hadn’t shifted yet—but my energy level and metabolism pointed to maybe ADHD. When I was feeling down on myself, because of poor teacher reports and grades, my aunt reminded me that I had no problem focusing on woodworking.

“I’d worried I was too dumb for school, but she insisted no. She said school was too sedentary for me, that I needed to run. Thankfully, I had a second-grade teacher who watched me run and play every chance I got. She told me when I was having trouble concentrating and needed to run, I should go take a quick lap around the school and then come back ready to work. She even made me a special pass that hung by the door.

“It was amazing. The first time I did it, I couldn’t believe how much easier it was for me to do the classwork afterward. I used to run laps three or four times a day and my grades steadily improved.

“And I’m not sure why I told you all that.”

I smiled in the dark. His voice was a comforting rumble that made me feel safe. “You’ve learned a lot about me today. Maybe you decided it was time to share something of yourself.”

“Hmm…that doesn’t sound like me.”

31

The Siren and the Werewolf

Islept soundly for about an hour and then startled awake. I wasn’t sure why. Declan’s breathing was still deep and slow. He wasn’t awake. The moon was setting, so the studio was darker than before.

Not wanting to wake Declan, I tried not to move too much as I looked around. Had something slithered through my spell at the windows and doors? The unease I’d felt earlier was back and stronger than ever. Even with Declan beside me, I wouldn’t sleep again.

I glanced up as I tried to figure out how to stand without waking my guard. There, in the skylight, was a shadow with yellow eyes staring back at me. My heart stopped and then galloped. That wasn’t a man. That was a demon. Watching me while I slept.

Tearing off the blanket, I stood and threw a spell at the skylight, turning it opaque. I turned and found Declan still asleep. A dry, papery laugh filled the room and then a horrible high-pitched shriek, like nails on a chalkboard.

I looked back up and saw lines being scraped in the now black skylight. An eye peered at me through the thin scratch. More scraping and the wordrunappeared, along with a dry cackling that had the blood draining from my head.

All at once, footsteps pounded on the roof, racing toward the back of the gallery, to all the open windows and doors. “Declan!” I screamed.

He slept on while I ran to the back, spells racing to my fingertips. I waved both hands, slamming closed the windows and doors. Staring out into the dark, I scanned back and forth. And then there he was, standing atop a post right outside the glass door, something wriggling in his hands.

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