Page 18 of Wicche Hunt

When it had finally risen to the height of the railing, I flipped over the see-through honey bear and scooped up the seawater, filling the little container. After screwing the top back on, I turned to find Declan sitting on a bench, finishing a muffin and watching me again.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“I had a thought last night. The ocean always makes me feel better, heals me. So I thought I should start carrying it around with me to see if it works in small doses.”

He nodded. “Great idea. It helped when I brought river water to you when we were in that little girl’s house.”

“Ana,” I said.

“I know,” he responded, standing up. “Thinking too much about her or Christopher is hard. I only know a small portion of what’s in your head, and it bothers the hell out of me. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Practice. And art. And my ocean friends here. Otis, who’s turned out to be a good painting buddy. Baking.” I shrugged. “Finding beauty to counter the horrific, I guess.”

“I like that.” He checked his watch. “We should probably get moving before—”

My phone buzzed.

“—that,” he finished.

EIGHT

The Corey Council Convenes

“Should I walk you in?” Declan asked.

“Why in the world would you do that?” I grabbed my backpack and stared at him.

He ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know, do I? It’s your mother and grandmother. I’m just trying to be polite here.”

I looked up at Mother’s pale yellow Queen Anne house. It was three stories with a turret. Growing up, the turret room was mine. Hardwood floors and floral rugs throughout, each room filled with perfectly maintained antiques, it had a distinctly feminine feel. The idea of this big lumberjack standing in the foyer cracked me up.

“Hmm, as someone who cares for you, I’d advise you to save yourself and never look back. As someone who also loves to watch my mother squirm in discomfort, I say come have lunch with us.”

He looked up at the big house. “How about if I split the difference and walk you to the door, say hello, and then burn rubber out of here?”

Grinning, I said, “Okay, but if you could stamp your boots a little and leave dirt or sawdust on her perfectly polished floors, I’ll make you cinnamon rolls.”

“Deal.” He got out and came to my side, closing the door after I slid out.

As we walked up the steps between the flowering hedgerow, the front door opened. My mother, in a trim navy blue dress, stepped out onto the porch.

“Ooh,” I whispered, “blocked at the door.”

“I still want cinnamon rolls,” he whispered back.

“Darling, you’re late. Lunch is going cold.” My mother was a beautiful, if stony, woman. She wore her shoulder-length black hair in a perpetual chignon. I happened to know that when she smiled, it felt like everything in the world would be okay. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember her wholeheartedly smiling since I was little.

She carried the weight of the Corey coven on her shoulders, and it showed in her stiff posture. Green eyes, heart-shaped face, bow lips, it didn’t matter. She and Aunt Sylvia could have been twins, but Syl didn’t carry the responsibility. She was lighter and freer and cover-model beautiful. The pressure and duty had hardened my mother’s features; her immense magical power made her a formidable opponent who most in their right minds avoided.

I loved that Declan pretended like he didn’t see the disapproval and didn’t feel the hostility. He was just her daughter’s—what?—suitor, I supposed, and he was treating Mom like any potential mate’s mother. I could tell it drove her nuts, which tickled me no end.

“Sorry, Mom. I was working and then”—I pulled at one of my curls—“you know how long it takes to deal with this.”

“Go in. Your grandmother is waiting for you.” She finally turned her attention to Declan. “And Mr. Quinn, it was good of you to chauffeur Arwyn to us.”

“That was no problem, ma’am. This is a beautiful house you have.” He stomped a boot on her porch. “Nice and solid.”

“Is that Arwyn’s young man I hear?” Gran’s voice floated out the door. Dressed in a trim black dress, her silver hair knotted in a bun at the base of her skull, she came to the door and tapped her daughter’s shoulder. They looked like an age progression image of the same person. “My goodness, where are your manners, Sybil? Declan, would you like to join us for lunch?”

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