Twenty-Six

 

Alasdair, Grayson, and I had an appointment with a local coven that the Guardians were apparently on good terms with. The idea of being in the same room as witches put me on edge. I hadn’t been any closer to witches than I absolutely had to be since my Making. The weather outside seemed particularly fitting as the hailstones pounded the car and reduced vision to a few feet away. Alasdair reached back from the driver’s seat and squeezed my knee.

“Relax, Niko.”

I hadn’t even realised I was bouncing my leg.

“Easier said than done,” I growled.

“Put your teeth away. Grayson and I won’t let anything happen to you,” he growled back.

Grayson’s words about Alasdair choosing me as his partner and what it meant came back to me. I caught Grayson watching me in the rear-view mirror and looked out the window to see the hail turn to an awful light rain that would sink into my bones.

The witches lived in a grand house complete with wrought iron gates (to keep the fae out) with silver dust coating them (to keep the lycans and shifters out). I rubbed my moonstone pendant between my thumb and forefinger and hoped the goddess was watching over me. My heart was going like a jackhammer against my ribs, and my hands started to tremble as the car came to a stop. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and pushed the fear away. I was a Guardian now. I wasn’t going to let some witches scare me. I had wolves to save.

The witch that answered the door was young, maybe fourteen at a guess. She stood with her back straight and her eyes hard, her mouth pulled into a tight scowl. I remembered how the witches I'd grown up with had fought back against their elders at that age, too. They felt they were old enough to be allowed to participate in the larger, more complex rituals, and the boring chores were below them. A twinge of melancholy formed as I remembered Brodie's smile and gentle jibes at his sister during that time.

"We're here to see Annette," Alasdair said.

The girl looked up at him and visibly paled before she nodded and stepped aside to allow us inside.

The entryway was simple and rustic in a classy sort of way. I put my hands in the pockets of my jeans to stop myself from fidgeting and stood strong and tall, envisioning myself facing down a strong alpha.

Every witch’s magic smells different. The coven house we’d just stepped into smelt like lemon meringue. The citrus tones slipped over the sugary sweetness. I wrinkled my nose. In my experience, those with the sweeter-scented magic were the more manipulative and prone to trying to play with people’s minds.

The woman walking down the hallway towards us had an aura of power that reminded me of my mother. Her magic smelled strongly of pink grapefruit, a sharp acidic scent that made me want to screw up my nose. My fire magic grew within me in response to her and the memories of my mother’s presence that she conjured. She turned her eyes to me and a small flicker of a smile passed over her lips before the blank expression returned.

"You must be the Guardians and their pet hound - come, we have tea prepared."

Alasdair led the way as we followed her down the hallway, which was remarkably plain. Given the size of the house, I had expected grandeur. My coven had certainly been fond of pretty baubles and displays of money and power. I assumed that there were plenty of those there, I just had no idea what I was looking at. I tamped the fire magic down and focused on getting through the meeting. There were no traces of the other witches or magic, besides the scent of it. I pricked my ears, listening for the rest of the coven. It was a habit, trying to see where my potential enemies were. The soft sound of bare footsteps came from the floor above, but the one we were walking through sounded as though it was empty bar the witch in front of us.

The tea had been set up in a generously sized conservatory where the sun streamed through the glass and gave everything a pleasant warmth. I frowned for a moment before I saw the wall of rain and realised they must have a weather witch among them. The sunshine cut through the heavy clouds to shine only on the conservatory. A little display of power. I smiled at the witch who had taken the largest wicker seat and allowed my teeth to sharpen a little as I did so. She might have magic, but I wasn't a pushover. The flicker of a smile crept over her lips once more before I took the seat closest to her. Fear be damned.

A teenage boy poured us tea and passed us delicate macarons before he stepped back away from the main group, hands behind his back, eyes straight ahead. I had served that role on more than one occasion, and I didn't envy him.

"You are here to discuss some sigils, yes?"

Alasdair sighed and ate his macaron in one piece.

"We made it quite clear what we wished to discuss on the phone last night," Alasdair said.

Grayson sniffed his tea and curled his lip before placing the delicate white cup back down on the saucer. I took a sniff of mine and caught a rich scent that didn't belong in tea. I doubted they would be foolish enough to poison it, but I wasn't going to risk it. So much for being allies, but then, they were witches. Their idea of an ally was very different to that of a shifter.

Annette sat a little taller and tried to look down her nose at Alasdair, but given he had a good eight inches on her, she failed. So, she switched to French when she spoke.

“The sigils you sent me are very old. They are not in use by my coven or any coven I am aware of. I can’t tell you anything more than you already know. I can, however, give you the details of a historian who specialises in such things.”

Alasdair had curled his lips, and his hackles rose as she spoke. He clearly didn’t speak enough French for that conversation. Fortunately, I was a polyglot. Languages came easily to me. I wasn’t going to be teaching classes on the intricacies of French grammar, but I could handle Annette.

“And why didn’t you tell us that over the phone?” I demanded as I touched the back of Alasdair’s hand with my fingertips.

It was a small gesture to try and stop him from forcing her to switch back to English, which would be a point to her. Her expression soured when I spoke her language with ease.

“I haven’t had the pleasure of a Guardian or a hound in a number of years. I saw no reason to pass the opportunity up,” she said.

“We’ll get the details of your historian from your coven mutt on the way out,” I said as I stood.

Every coven had a mutt, a person or being that existed solely to run errands and do the things that even the younger members were considered too good for. Sometimes that mutt was a magicless male who wasn’t pretty enough to fetch a good marriage. Others it was some poor person brought in from the outside.

“And which coven did you come from, wolf?” she asked sweetly.

I returned her sweet smile and left without a word. No good came from her knowing such a thing.