Page 5

“Carrie, everyone in that bar saw you two staring at each other like the last pair of fertile people after the apocalypse. Subtlety packed its bags and already left town.”

I looked through the grimy window. Logan had reclaimed his stool and was pretending not to watch the door. He failed spectacularly. Even seated, he managed to bump his knee against the bar and nearly head-butt his beer.

“Mother cursed him,” I said. “Her little project.”

Delia’s humor faded. “I know.”

“And you never thought to mention that the man she’s been tormenting for a year might be tied to me by ancient magic?”

“Until five minutes ago, I thought your mate would be a warlock with a trust fund and a stick up his ass. You know, someone Jacqueline could tolerate over brunch.”

“That sounds fucking terrible.”

“Which is why I’m thrilled the Fates developed taste.”

I elbowed her. She grunted but stayed beside me, shoulder pressed to mine. Delia was trouble wrapped in eyeliner, but she was my trouble. In a coven built on obedience, she was one of the few people who remembered I had been Carolina before I became the heir.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked.

“Talk to him.”

“And after that? Invite him to Sunday dinner? Mother can carve the roast while explaining which organ she plans to turn inside out first.”

“Maybe skip dinner.”

The bond pulled again. This time it carried something with it. Not words exactly, but emotion. Loneliness. Embarrassment. A weary acceptance that hurt worse than panic would have. Logan expected me to walk away because everyone walked away.

That pissed me off.

Not at him. At my mother. At the bar full of people treating his humiliation like free entertainment. At myself for judging him before I understood what I was seeing.

“I need to know what he did,” I said.

“To earn the curse?”

“Yes.”

“Ask Jacqueline.”

I stared at her.

“Right,” Delia said. “Terrible idea. She’ll know why you care before you finish the first sentence.”

“Then I’ll ask him.”

The decision should have terrified me. Instead, the bond eased, as if the damn thing had been waiting for me to stop arguing with it.

I pushed away from the wall and made it three steps before the air changed.

My mother’s magic arrived before she did. The streetlights dimmed. The ward I’d cast shattered with a sound like ice cracking over deep water. Then Jacqueline Fortman rounded the corner in a crimson coat and a black hat wide enough to qualify as local weather.

She stopped beneath the streetlight and looked from me to the bar window. Her gaze landed on Logan. Her mouth tightened.

“Carolina.”

One word. My name, sharpened into a warning.

“Mother.” I made my face smooth. Empty. The expression she had taught me for negotiations and funerals.