Page 9 of His Whispered Witch

“There are rumors of fangs,” Niamh whispered.

“Monsters!” Siobhan added before walking behind the curtain that led to the back storeroom. She was so tall, she had to duck.

Penn sighed. Her old coven avoided werewolves like any other sane witches, but that didn’t mean they spent time worrying about them. There weren’t any packs anywhere near her home in Pennsylvania, so rival witches were always the bigger concern, which, hey, they hadn’t been wrong about.

Out here, it wasn’t thefirstthing the twins mentioned every time they saw Penn, but there were very few conversations that didn’t at least offhandedly touch on shifters.

There were supposedly a lot of wolves in the woods. It was just no one had ever seen them come anywhere near Silver Spring, but by god, these ladies were ready if they ever did.

“I think we’re safe for another day,” Penn said.

“Good,” Niamh said and brushed her hands over the counter like she was brushing away the threat. “You know, we have a defensive kit just behind the register.”

“Yes, you did show me that.” It involved holy water, which Penn did not think would do anything to a human being who occasionally changed species, but she held her tongue.

Niamh nodded again.

“And a crossbow in the back!” Siobhan yelled from the storeroom.

Penn looked around the store, worried that an unsuspecting customer might hear about the weaponry, but it was empty. She summoned a smile from somewhere. “Got it.”

“So, what brings you here, my dear?” Niamh asked.

“I actually have a client.”

“Oh, congratulations! Where?”

“He’s meeting me here. I booked the room.”

In addition to the downstairs retail, they had a tiny upstairs space over the storeroom that they rented out to local massage therapists, psychotherapists, body workers, and the one healer in the coven who, like Penn, did vague healing things to her clients with magic and called it something else.

Penn preferred to meet clients in a neutral location, though she sometimes had to go to somebody’s home. One massage therapist was allergic to cats, and Gary could hardly have hauled his donkey up the tiny stairs, but today’s client hadn’t specified the animal.

When she’d asked the man on the phone whether he had a cat, he simply said no. She’d waited for him to elaborate, but he hadn’t, so she’d taken the risk. Well, she would see soon enough.

The chimes tinkled and tilted sideways in a non-existent breeze, warning them that someone was at the side stairs.

“That’s him.” She waved and headed for the side door.

“Remember, that’s just a doorbell. We can’t ward the stairs,” Niamh called after her.

“Hunh?”

Niamh groaned. “The chimes kept going off when raccoons snuck by.”

“Your spell can’t distinguish between a raccoon and a werewolf?”

She didn’t say anything.

“Be on your guard,” Siobhan shouted from the back.

“Yes, ma’am, um, ma’am’s.”

She jogged to the tiny door between bookshelves and pushed it open. Her jaw dropped when she saw who was waiting for her at the base of the rickety stairs that led to the second level.

It was the man from the race, the one with the white-gray hair and haunted eyes. He wore the same clothes—faded jeans and a checked blue button-down shirt, long-sleeved even in the summer heat—with that strange leather necklace around his neck. He seemed to suck up all her oxygen.

He tipped his head like he was wearing a hat. “Good morning.”

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