Page 64 of Wicche Hunt

She looked over her shoulder and moved out of the way. “Bracken, this is my daughter Arwyn. Arwyn, this is Bracken.”

I stepped into the room and watched his furrowed brow relax, his Corey green eyes soften. How odd. They’d told me he wasn’t one of us. He wore gold-rimmed round glasses perched on his long, thin nose. Pale, as though he spent little to no time in the sun, his concerned expression turned dreamy.

“Beautiful.” He shuffled toward me.

I took his hand and led him from the chaos that seemed to be making his mind spiral. “Hi. Let’s come out here, where it’s not so bad.”

He nodded, following like a trusting child.

Once back in the main room, I took him to a table by the large window, moved a chair so he could look out at the park, the huge tree, and the lighthouse. I moved a second chair, ignoring my mom’s throat clearing of annoyance that I was altering the crime scene. I sat across from Bracken and his gaze shifted from the park to me.

“I know it’s impolite to stare,” he said, “but looking at you is restful for me.” Lowering his voice, he leaned in, his gaze traveling over me. “When there’s too much, it’s like all the musicians in a symphony testing their instruments. Discordant. Cacophonous.”

He lowered his voice even more. “I was building to a panic attack. I felt it coming, but everywhere I looked, there was more disorder.” He swallowed. “And then I saw you and my mind cleared. Your face is perfectly symmetrical. Your hair is a harmonious blend of brown, red, and gold.” He shook his head. “Extraordinary. Now, with the light from the window behind you, there’s almost a halo of blue around it.”

He took another deep breath. “I’m sorry, but I find your perfection relaxing. Thank you.”

Grinning, I said, “Well, thankyou.” Mom was puttering behind the counter, paying little attention to us, until I asked, “Do you have a place to stay? Mom and Gran have guest rooms, if you need one.”

Mom looked panicked for a moment.

He shook his head, still staring. “No, thank you.”

She relaxed and went back to taking photos with her phone. When another customer came to the door, alarm and confusion clear on her face, Mom walked to the shattered door, explaining she’d be closed for a couple of weeks to make repairs. The woman said she was sorry and left.

“I’ll make you a sign, Mom.” Going through my backpack, I pulled out a sketchbook, a black chisel-tipped marker, and a set of colored pencils.

CLOSED due to unforeseen and extraordinarily rude vandalism. We’ll open again soon!

I drew a tea pot in one corner and a steaming cup of tea in the other, with a few tea leaves around the page.

“Closedis probably enough, darling.” Mom had moved closer and was watching.

Before I could respond, Bracken said, “Nonsense. She’s creating art while telling a story. Your customers will understand why you’re closed, and they’ll return happily when you reopen, buying more than they need to show their support.”

She patted my shoulder in apology. We probably both heard the unspokenbad habits.

“That door needs to be boarded up,” I said, finishing the sign and handing it to her.

She taped it in the front window. “Your Uncle John is on his way with plywood, screws, and a drill.”

“Good.” I put my things away, returning my attention to Bracken, who had yet to take his eyes off me. I know that sounded creepy, but it wasn’t. I recognized the desperation in his eyes. I could see what he was going through. If staring at me helped to settle his mind, so be it.

Mom gave Bracken a wary look and then answered her phone. It sounded like she was talking with Gran. Her gaze kept shooting to Bracken as though he were a problem she was trying to figure out how to deal with.

I understood my mother better after last night, but that didn’t mean I gave her a free pass. Bracken had come right over to check on her business and she was treating him like he was unwanted. I loved my family. Many of them annoyed the crap out of me, but I still loved them. Well, not Colin.

This was the problem, though. They didn’t understand or sometimes even try to accommodate those of us who were often viewed as weirdos.

They wanted us to hide what made us unique. Intellectually, I understood it was probably because wicches had been hiding their existence since the beginning. Anyone who drew attention was a danger to the coven. No one wanted to die by fire or at the end of a rope. While I might understand the origin of the impulse, that didn’t make it any easier to deal with.

“I think Gran said you’re a writer. Is that correct?”

He nodded. “Historian, actually, though I do write books.” His hands were clasped on the table but his knuckles were no longer white, so he was easing down.

“Which historical period do you study?”

Shoulders straightening, he said, “All of them. It’s fascinating. All of human—and magical—history unrolls in every direction around us. I like to follow the lines.”

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