Page 93 of Which Witch is Willing?
Aerin sensed the moments the wards went up against them. Wards against evil. Wards against harm. And wards against them, specifically.
Goddess give her strength to deal with bitchy witches.
She had tried to strategize with her sisters last night regarding what would be the best configuration of the four of them to attempt this peace offering. It was settled that it would be just as foolish to leave anyone out of it as it was to bring all of them.
So, they went together.
Situated in downtown Port Townsend, The Raven Rook Inn was a three-story red brick building which claimed a corner of Water Street lined—as so many Victorian towns were—with tightly stacked buildings. Old-timey shingles advertised shops and restaurants beneath their delightful varied edifices and meticulous scrollwork. It was charming as fuck and had been over-populated with tourists back before the end of days.
The town gleamed in the intermittent early-afternoon sun, barely revealed by this morning’s rainclouds. Moisture still dripped off the leaves and sparkled like little gems on potted flowers, assorted awnings, and the oil slicks left by cars in the road.
The Raven Rook Inn was no longer a functioning hotel, but had been conscripted by the local coven as a base of operations during wartime. A war that seemed to be raging just as much within their ranks as without.
The wards vibrated as they approached, and when Aerin lifted her fist to knock on the intricately carved front door, her skin prickled as if being stung by a handful of bees.
Uncomfortable, but not a significant impediment.
They could have forced their way into the hotel in any number of ways. Flown through the roof-top skylight on their broomsticks, for example, or blown the door wide open.
But that was not how truces were made, and they decided that they’d do this as mortals. As women. Nary a wand, broom, nor protective horseman in sight.
Of course, all were stashed nearby in case the need arose.
They were being nice, not naïve.
Through the textured glass, the distorted forms of two matrons trundled forward and Aerin recognized them from Tierra’s ill-fated baby shower as Martha and Hattie Mae.
Once they opened the door, the steel-haired women who stood sentinel might have stepped out of a noir mystery. Martha, a severe-looking black woman in a long, elegant gray dress and perpetually narrowed eyes, and Hattie Mae, a faded blonde bombshell who’s lipliner painted an almost comical fiction of her features.
Aerin didn’t exactly expect to be invited in, but the open rebuke on the women’s faces threatened to damage her calm.
Martha spoke for them both. “You have some nerve coming here,” she tutted, sucking at her teeth.
Tierra stepped forward, as it had been agreed that she’d break the ice, seeing as she had a long-standing relationship with these women and, until recently, an exceptional reputation and place among the coven. “Martha, Hattie Mae, we’ve come to talk.” She pulled her bronze sweater tightly around the ultra-feminine palazzo pantsuit she wore, making a show of being chilly left out in the autumn breeze.
“Okay.” Martha planted a fist on her hip, clearly unmoved. “So, talk.”
Tierra paused for a moment, notably affected by the hostility on the faces of the women who’d helped Aunt Justine raise her.
“I was hoping to be invited in,” she said carefully, maintaining her composure. “We’d like to address all of you.”
Hattie Mae, her eyes peeled wide by the magic wielded only by a plastic surgeon’s knife wagged a long-nailed finger at them. “We’re not stupid enough to fall for that. Did you bring your soul-stealing spawn with you?”
“Justine is watching her. And that’s uncalled for,” Tierra said in defense of her child. “She only borrowed—”
Claire put a hand on Tierra’s elbow. “We’re looking to broker peace and foster understanding. We know there is a past and prophecy and fear, but we’re hoping to try to move past that. To work together.”
Martha shook her head. “We’re past that now. Goodbye Tierra, and good luck.” She stepped back to slam the door in their faces, and that’s when Aerin stepped forward, catching the door against her palm. “We’re here to help you idiot biddies, now find your manners and let us in.”
“Not a chance.” Martha threw her weight against the door, and Aerin was surprised that the old woman’s muscle was every bit as strong as her perfume. “We’ll do just fine on our own, thank you very much.”
“Wrong.” Aerin shoved her way past the threshold, gritting her teeth against the pain of the wards until she made her way through, much to their shock and dismay. “Your wards are weak, and your power is waning. You need us. And we want to help!”
Moira, who’d hung back in hopes to make the fact that she carried—in their estimation—demon spawn 2.0, now reached for Aerin’s elbow, tugging her back. “Intimidation’s no way to broker peace,” she hissed.
Hattie Mae blew a puff of her bangs out of her eyes. “No. This air witch speaks the truth; weareweakening and it’s all thanks to you lot.”
Aerin’s brows sank in consternation. “Excuse Moi?” Were they just getting blamed for all the rando bad shit now?
