Page 49 of The Powerless Witch

Lily

The world had gone mad. Madder than mad. The maddest. Was that even a word?

I ran a hand over my face to find it clammy and unbearably hot. Frustration swelled in my chest, but it quickly died down into the abyss of panic and fear that had been surrounding me for days.

Of course having witches blow a whole vampire nest on top of my head, finding out the vampire we live with has a dungeon where he tortures people, and meeting my mate wouldn’t be enough for a Tuesday. Not to forget finding out that my dead sister wasn’t so dead.

Nope, I had to get a cold too—and one that kept getting worse no matter how many bowls of my mom’s chicken soup I ate or how many meds I took. I was starting to believe I was cursed. I washopingI was, because that would explain why all of this was happening.

It had been over ten years since Violet’s death. I could still remember the policemen, the news, the way my father broke down, the tears my mother cried. I had refused to accept it for the longest time, even as my parents returned from the morgue and told me she was gone. I remembered the pain, the hollowness, the guilt. It hadtaken us years to learn to live with that emptiness, to smile again. And all of this time…she had been alive. But why hadn’t she sought us out? What had happened to her? And how the hell did she have magic?

‘It’s not her,’a voice in my head insisted and logically, I knew it was probably true. The woman who saved me had looked like Violet, but she was different too—there was no spark in her eyes, her expression had been pained and listless and she had goddamn magic! Not to mention that after my head injury, my memory was fuzzy, so I had probably imagined the whole thing. But the way her eyes widened when they met mine, the recognition that passed through us…that had felt real.

I had to find out who she was, and where she was, but all I had was a name—Samara—and that wasn’t much to go with. I wanted to rush to my parents and tell them that she was alive, that we met, and that I was going to find her…but I couldn’t put them through that again. Not until I was absolutely sure.

I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the window, but forced myself to stay away from it. Part of me wanted to peek out, wanted to see a truck parked outside and that gorgeous dark-haired woman pacing beside it. Part of me wanted to go to her and talk, to ask the million questions that were swirling in my mind, to demand why the hell was she staring at me, a complete stranger, with such longing that she looked like she might die when Roman told her to leave.

I didn’t handle that well, but in my defense, I was already having a terrible day. And feeling that pull, that overwhelming sensation that took over my body and refused to let go, it was a bit too much. I hadn’t even told my parents about liking girls, let alone meeting my… my…

A soft creak made my head snap toward the door just as a small figure sauntered in, swaying his tail while he made his way to the table.

“You look awful,” Nym said, jumping on it with ease. I watched him zig-zag between the stacks of books and piles of scratched papers, half-expecting him to push something off just because he could. He ignored them until he stopped where I sat behind my laptop. When he glanced at the screen I had left it on—an old article about an animal attack on a group of women that coincided with the huge fire that destroyed half of the forest around the city—I was reminded yet again that he wasn’t an actual cat. He was a familiar of a witch and more, if what I’d heard from Roman and Chester was true.

“We all have bad days,” I tried to laugh, but the sound came out weak and stale. Nym made an expression that looked like a frown before walking over the laptop and perching on the edge of the table. His eyes went to something behind me and I turned to look, only to realize he was staring at my board.

I liked to write my thoughts down while I worked through research and connect them visually in a way I couldn’t do in my head. It helped me see things I couldn’t before, and find links that evaded me in the chaos that was my head.

“You should get some rest,” he said, setting his golden eyes on me again. “As demanding as Roman is, I doubt he would have given you this task if he saw you looking like this.”

“I’m fine!” I lied, turning back to my computer because I couldn’t bring myself to hold those piercing eyes that seemed to see straight into my soul. “Besides, I’m onto something, I can feel it! Roman said that he thinks this hunter is in the center of everything, but I think it’s bigger than him. For example, if Roman is right and this hunter really is a living Castle descendant, then his mother was supposed to have died in her bed, peacefully. However, look what I found.” I scrolled down to the bottom of the article where a list of the victims of a vicious animal attack and their black-and-white photographs were lined up. I opened the one before last, featuring an older woman with dark hair and a serious expression. Nym just stared, and I realized he probably had no idea what I was talking about. I opened another window, on a report I got from Roman about Malia, clicking on her picture there and putting them side to side. The one on the report was of a younger woman, prettier and with a hint of a smile on her, but the resemblance was obvious.

“I think Malia Castle was killed when Isaac’s pack was attacked. Or shortly before that. Maybe the hunters ran into the witches on the way to capture Celeste and got into a fight. Or some of the werewolves in the pack escaped and killed the witches—the cause of their deaths was an animal attack, after all. It all happened the same year, the same season, the same area. But there is something that baffles me. Eighty years ago, there was this huge fire in the Tremain forest, which I assume was a cover-up for that massacre. But why weren’t these witches’ deaths also covered up? Did the hunters overlook them or what? I can’t figure out what’s missing.”

“They didn’t overlook them, nor did they kill them,” Nym said in a dark tone. “Neither did the werewolves.”

Frowning, I raised my eyes from the laptop to look at him.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I did.”

I blinked a few times as my brain worked through the information, and the way his eyes remained dark and perfectly unbothered sent a shiver down my spine.

“Why?” My voice was barely louder than a whisper and suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the room. I knew Celeste had killed before and I assumed that Nym had too, but seeing not even a shred of remorse in his eyes made me realize that I was standing face-to-face with a predator, not a cat.

“Because they attacked us first.” The familiar shrugged, turning away from me. “We were on our way to that werewolf pack when they intercepted us. There were a lot of them that night and my mistress was in a hurry, so she told me to take care of them. She continued ahead and left me to dispatch them. Had I known there were hunters waiting to trap her, I wouldn’t have left her side. But back then, I listened. I hunted them until I felt her dying. I left the last of them to escape only because I was in a hurry to get to her side. But I was too late. By the time I reached her, she had returned to the earth.”

I felt the urge to pet him, to soothe that anger that made his fur bristle, but the sense of danger emanating from him made me keep my hands to myself. Nym’s tail swished in agitation several times before he returned his eyes to me.

“Is that all?”

I shifted uncomfortably, minimizing the windows and opening another report.

“Um, no. There is something about Malia’s youngest child, a boy who died in childbirth. She had it at home, alone, and reported him dead a few days later. But there had been no funeral, no listing of where he was buried, nothing. Do you think she might have, like, buried him in her backyard? Or do witches burn their dead?” I braved another look towards the familiar and for the first time, I noticed curiosity sparking in his eyes. He said nothing, but I held my groan in frustration.

Talking to Nym was like talking to a real cat sometimes. He barely said much and when he did, it was often something I couldn’t understand.

“A boy?” he repeated, his whiskers moving excitedly. “Any strange weather phenomena reported around the time of his birth?”

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