Page 30 of A Match Made in Coven
Shouldering her way through the crowd, Sarah Michelle finally reached the dining room. The long table almost sagged under the spread—two golden-skinned turkeys glistened with herb butter, mashed potatoes were heaped in mounds like fluffy clouds, and the desserts were next level. Towering trays of bone-chip cookies, oozing pans of broomstick brownies, and vats of shimmering midnight ice cream enchanted to keep cool all vied for attention. Sarah Michelle’s mouth watered at the sight.
As everyone took their seats in a cacophony of scraping chairs and clattering dishes, Sarah Michelle slid into her usual spot. The chatter barely dipped as people loaded up their plates.
Sarah Michelle filled her plate, too, and made the mistake of meeting her mother’s gaze across the room.
“Shelly, I hear you’ve been gallivanting around town with aBlack.”
Her mother packed so much disgust into the single word “Black” that it snuffed out the festive mood. The accusation fell on Sarah like an anvil, and a sudden hush descended over the table—conversations halted mid-sentence. Sarah Michelle froze, a bite halfway to her mouth, as every head turned to her.
Oh, gargoyles.
She forced a casual shrug to ignore the prickling sensation of all those eyes on her. “He’s just a person of interest in a case, Mom.”
“Really? Then why were you seen consorting in a coffee shop?”
Sarah Michelle’s cheeks burned as she set down her fork, her appetite suddenly vanishing. “We were discussing a murder.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so? Since when do your investigations involve cozy little chats over Frogguccinos?”
Sarah Michelle gritted her teeth, her irritation rising. In a town like Salem, where everyone spread everyone else’s business before they even knew it themselves, privacy was about as common as a unicorn sighting. The chairs might as well have eyes and the walls ears for how fast gossip traveled. “Since when do you keep tabs on my every move?” she shot back, instantly regretting the sharp tone.
Her aunt Hester gasped dramatically. “Shelly, mind your manners! Your mother is only looking out for you.”
Her mom nodded. “You can’t get friendly with one of those excuses for witches.”
“No one is making friends. It was professional. It’s called gathering information, Mom. That thing I do for a living, ring a bell?” Sarah Michelle couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
Before her mother could retort, Sarah Michelle’s grandmother, a formidable witch who’d seen more than a century of Callidora family drama, leaned forward. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk’s despite her age, fixed on Sarah Michelle.
“You have to remember our history and learn from it, my dear,” she began, and Sarah Michelle barely suppressed a groan. Here we go again.
“Centuries ago, a marriage was arranged between Lysander Black and Mary Callidora,” her grandmother intoned. “But on the day of their nuptials, Lysander, consumed by jealousy, falsely accused Mary of betrayal. In a fit of rage, he slit her throat and stabbed her, again and again, until her blood stained the wedding dress she’d never wear again. She died cursing his name and all his coven with her last breath.”
A shiver rippled through the listeners, and little ones’ eyes grew wide with a mix of fear and morbid fascination.
“They say the wails of her ghost can still be heard on a full moon,” her grandmother continued, “vowing that a Black and a Callidora will never again be together, lest they face her wrath.”
Sarah Michelle couldn’t take it anymore. “Oh, come on, Nana,” she burst out. “That’s just an old legend. Lysander Black was never even proven guilty!”
Her relatives gasped in choir at her words, and Sarah Michelle immediately regretted her outburst.
“I’mworkingwith Lorcan Black on a case,” she quickly added, stressing the word “working.” “Nothing else is going on.”
The room exploded into hysteria, as if she’d just announced she was moonlighting as a necromancer-for-hire, with everyone talking over each other in a rising tide of accusations and speculation.
“The Blacks are the worst!”
“Lysander was guilty as sin. He just weaseled out of paying for his crime—that’s why he turned into a ghost, too, trapped in the old cemetery for his guilt! A sentence that will carry for all of eternity.”
“Never trust a Black man, especially not with your heart!”
Sarah Michelle slumped in her seat, the cacophony washing over her. The noise and the pressure built until Sarah Michelle felt like she might explode. She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor.
“I need some air,” she muttered to no one in particular.
She strode out of the room, ignoring the stares boring into her back. The cool night outside was a relief from the stifling atmosphere inside, but not enough to ease her frustration. She paced the yard, her boots crunching on the fallen leaves.
“Hex it all,” she muttered under her breath. Why did her family have to be so stubborn, so bound by the past?
