Page 16 of The Rowan
With a glance over her shoulder at the dark witches, she warns Arden, “Make sure you don’t make the wrong decision when you join the coven, or you’ll end up with losers. Oh, my mother is sending you an invitation to meet the council tomorrow night. Make sure you dress appropriately.” A toss of her hair, and the witch leaves the dance floor with the others in tow.
“An invitation to the council? What are they up to now?” I murmur to Theron, who’s stepped up to join us.
“I don’t know, but she won’t be going alone,” he assures me. We both turn back to watch Arden below.
Arden frowns at Cassandra, then glances over to the dark witches, who are now glaring at her. It’s easy to see from this angle that the bitch Cassandra accomplished her goal. The dark witches think Arden’s aligning herself with Cassandra.
A gong sounds, and the dark witches shift their attention toward the stage. With a whisper of magic, their outfits change from casual to costume in a blink of an eye. Black thigh highs and matching knee-high heeled boots are paired with a black bustier and a microscopic black leather miniskirt.
“The clothes get tinier and tinier as the years go by,” Theron remarks dryly.
Daire grins. “I sure as hell don’t mind,” he retorts with a lick of his lips, as if the lack of clothing is an open invitation to biting wherever he pleases.
Theron shakes his head in disappointment. “No class,” he states.
“Just because their outfits are skimpy doesn’t mean they lack class,” he chides Theron.
“He meant you,” I roar, laughing at him.
A low growl escapes when he turns to Theron. “I’m a prince. You’re a lowly lord. What do you know about class?”
“I assure you…” Before Theron can finish the sentence, the dark witch performance begins. This time, a violin plays the opening bars of “Salt” by Ava Max. Unlike the light witches, this performance isn’t for the crowd. Oh, they’re entertained, but it’s more for the personal message it’s sending than the performance. The dark witches dance hard and their voices ring out, but their attention remains on a solitary figure at the back of the crowd.
A few jeers and a slap on the back of an incubus identifies their intended target. It’s the same incubus who led the performance Astor favored the other night.
Salt appears on the dance floor, and the witches slide through it, picking it up in their hands and flinging it up in the air as they dance until it covers everyone. A few crystals land on my sleeve, and I brush them off, scowling at the dance floor. The performances irritate me, but it beats breaking up fights every night.
The song ends, and the leading dark witch hands Arden a card as she walks past her. Going straight up to the incubus, she flings salt directly at him, then stalks off in the opposite direction, her trail of minions behind her.
We all know salt keeps a demon out of your house, and the crowd roars with laughter at the intended message. At least this performance was interesting. As I look over at Arden, she’s staring down at the card in her hands with a pensive expression on her face. I wonder what it says.
10
ARDEN
My spine tingles, alerting me to a supernatural presence, right before an envelope slips under my hotel door. Witchfire flares in my hand, ready to fire in my defense. With my magic, I slowly open the door, but find the hallway empty.
With a wave, the door closes, and I pick up the envelope and open it to find tonight’s invite. I stand there staring at the black card with my name embossed in gold. Butterflies erupt inside me at this momentous event, and my fingers trace over my name repeatedly, my witch heritage literally at my fingertips. Tonight is a simple meeting with key members of the coven, but it’s momentous because it’s the first step in finding out why my mother wanted me to hide from the witches.
Hmm…It doesn’t say to come alone, I reflect. I tap the card against my palm.
Picking up my phone, I send a text to two very different people. Now that’s done, I need to find somethingappropriateto wear.
* * *
When I feelthe tingles this time, I open the door without waiting for the knock. “Good evening, Lord Theron,” I murmur in greeting. “If you wouldn’t mind coming in for a second, I need your help.”
He stands in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a navy suit and purple tie, which enhances his violet eyes further and matches my form-fitting deep purple dress. “Good evening,” he says tersely, the air snapping with cold around him.
I guess someone’s in a snit, I muse.
With a wave, I gesture for him to enter. As he passes, a waft of his delicious scent of winter and dark chocolate follows, and my nipples peak at the intoxicating smell. I close my eyes, savoring the feeling for a brief second, then focus on the reason I invited him into my room.
“Would you mind zipping me up?” I plead, turning my back to him. I hear a harsh exhale, a pause, and the anger snapping at the edges of his composure mellows. Cool fingers trace down my spine before capturing the zipper and pulling it up.
With a shiver, I turn to face him, but he hasn’t moved. A couple of inches separate us, and with my heels on, there’s little difference in our height, making my mouth line up perfectly with his, my glossy lips millimeters from his firm ones. Barely breathing, I fight the urge to close the distance.
My eyes meet his. Desire flares between us, and the air turns heavy with need. My heart pounds as I wait for his next move. His violet eyes sweep down to my lips, which I lick, and he sucks in a breath. My hands reach out to pull him to me but find nothing but air.
