Page 42 of Love At First Roar
“…blood on the parchment,” Miriam murmured.
Twyla answered. “A raven in daylight, wings blacker than moonshadow. That’s old magic, nasty and personal.”
Callum’s gut went tight. Parchment, blood, raven. Cora.
He pushed through the back door before second thoughts could bite. Twyla whirled around, teapot halfway to the shelf. Miriam stood by a cluttered worktable, kettle steaming beside a scone tin. Both women stiffened at his sudden appearance.
“Who sent a raven?” His voice came out low, not quite a growl but close enough that Twyla’s brows shot up.
Miriam set the kettle down, wiping her hands on her apron. “Callum?—”
“Don’t soften it,” he cut in. “Talk straight.”
Twyla folded her arms, golden eyes sharp. “Not our story to tell.”
He glared. “If it threatens Hollow Oak, it is.”
Miriam held up a calming palm. “Sugar, if you want answers, go ask the girl directly. And maybe think on why she came to us first.”
The words landed like a slap. He opened his mouth, shut it, shoulder muscles twitching.
Twyla tapped a manicured finger on the table. “You ever wonder why folks keep part of themselves hidden around you? Might be all that scowling.”
“Don’t start,” he muttered.
“Then go listen,” she shot back. “With ears, not claws.”
He pivoted on his heel, stalking out of the café. The square blurred past, colors too bright. Her cottage sat a short walk down the trail, white smoke curling from the chimney. He slowed only when the gate creaked under his hand.
Cora knelt by the herb bed, head bowed. At the sound of the gate she looked up, freckles stark against pale cheeks, eyes shadowed with something heavier than sleeplessness.
“You should be resting,” Callum said, softer than he felt.
She pushed to her feet, brushing dirt from her palms. “Couldn’t.”
He studied her face, the tightness around her mouth, the faint tremor in her fingers. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
She glanced at the open door, then back. “Inside.”
The cottage smelled of rosemary and damp parchment. On the table lay a folded scrap, edges crusted brown. Beside it sat her sketchbook. She moved past him, lifted the scrap with pinch-tight fingers, and handed it over.
Blood had dried rusty, soaking the rough paper. In the center a single word spiraled:Mine.
Heat detonated behind Callum’s sternum, lion roaring awake. He crushed the parchment in his fist, then forced his fingers to ease. “When?”
“Yesterday.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “A raven delivered it at dusk.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
Her eyes flashed. “You made it clear we should keep things professional.”
His jaw flexed. Professional. Safe. A wall he put up and now hated. “Sit,” he said, voice gravel. “Tell me every detail.”
She sat on the sofa, notebook in her lap, picking at the corner. “It landed on my fence while I was in the garden. Itdropped the parchment, stared at me—eyes wrong, like smoke. Then it flew north.”
“North leads to the Forgotten Cut.” The phrase tasted foul. Crooked gullies and broken ley lines up there, a perfect hide-away for dark ritual. “Anything else?”
She opened the sketchbook to a fresh page. Under quick strokes her charcoal shaped words, symbols, a map of the surrounding woods. “He knows I’m here,” she whispered. “He’s using the relic to anchor his claim, pushing the Veil until it lets him in.”
