Six

 

There wasn’t much to go on. The coven had reported the witchlings missing some twenty hours ago, and the goddess had told Saoirse to take the case from the local enforcers. They’d been quite happy to hand it over, given that witches didn’t much like enforcers. The witchlings hadn’t shown very much potential, and both were fifteen. They were three months away from their ascension ritual. That was what they called the ritual that brought out a witch’s magic and brought her into womanhood. Both girls had been well thought of, quiet, and hadn’t gotten into any trouble or vanished before.

Grayson drove for a change while Alasdair read and re-read the folder. I chewed on my bottom lip and tried to think what I’d do if the witches recognised me. I could always just bullshit and say I was a wolf shifter, a Guardian, I had no idea what they were talking about with the witch heritage. Given that I’d slipped up and given away my witch childhood the last time I stepped foot in a coven, I wasn’t sure how well that would hold. How much difference would it make if they knew who I was? Lysander’s face swam into my mind’s eye. People couldn’t know who I was. If they did, they’d be able to put the pieces together, and I’d be screwed.

I’d just lie. If it came up, then I was from some small coven with no real magic that they hadn’t heard of. I nodded, satisfied that it would cover my ass. Alasdair squeezed my knee before he got out of the car in front of the imposing building. We’d driven down a private driveway with manicured lawns on either side before we arrived at the three-story cream mansion before us. Wealth and status were both very important to covens, so they often showed that off as best as they could. I stood out like a sore thumb in my jeans and t-shirt. Screw them. I put my shoulders back and walked at Alasdair’s side as we walked up the shallow steps onto the porch area. I was his equal. I was a damn Guardian and would be treated with the respect that afforded.

The door opened before we were within arm’s reach. The witches were showing they knew we were there. It was a small show of power. I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes and instead smiled politely. A woman in her late thirties with her dark blonde hair in an elaborate up-do opened the door. She stepped back on her stiletto heels and gestured for us to step into the expanse of a foyer. A large crystal chandelier hung overhead and softly tinkled in a gentle breeze, likely witch-created to highlight the fact they could afford such a chandelier.

“I am Gwenivere. I am the keeper of the house. Come with me,” she said.

The keeper of the house was the one that kept everyone in line and made sure everything ran as it needed to. They were the third in line to the head of the coven, with the mistress of the house being second in command, the coven crone being the head. Crone was considered a compliment, as it reflected the Crone, the goddess witches were tied to. The Crone granted witches their magic and was known for taking it away again if she felt the witches had stepped out of line. She was a fierce and difficult goddess to work with. Or so I’d heard; my coven had spoken of her, but, apparently, they followed someone else entirely.

Alasdair and Grayson walked on either side of me. Alasdair’s fingertips brushed over mine, a small gesture of support that made me smile and reminded me I wasn’t alone in this. The house around us was decorated in what could have been Victorian or Georgian style. Architecture and interior design had never been something I’d really paid much attention to. Brodie had been interested for a time, though, so I knew that the rich bottle-green wallpaper with its intricate pattern was handmade and likely cost upwards of three hundred euros a roll.

We followed Gwenivere into a spacious room with stiff high-backed sofas spread throughout the brightly lit space. Bay windows were decorated with floral stained glass on the upper panes, which added splashes of colour to the off-white floor. Two women sat with their ankles tucked behind each other, their backs as rigidly straight as those of the sofas, and their chins tilted up just enough to show they felt themselves superior to anything else in the room. The mistress and crone.

Each wore a fitted black dress and high stiletto heels. The younger woman with rich tawny skin turned her gaze to Grayson, and a flicker of a smile passed over her lips.

“They sent us a hellhound half-breed?” she asked.

I couldn’t quite pick out what her accent was beneath her crisp enunciation.

“We are Guardians, and we are here about your missing witchlings,” Alasdair said as he stepped forward.

I wanted to brush my fingers over Grayson’s fingers to reassure him and take away the bite of the witch’s words, but I didn’t know where his boundaries lay as an asexual.

“Take a seat, and we will tell you what little we know,” the older woman with deep mahogany skin said, gesturing to the pastel green sofa.

I allowed Grayson and Alasdair to sit as I stood near Alasdair, my hand on the back of the sofa. It was a small act of defiance, but it felt good.

A teenager who must have been the same age as the missing girls brought a silver tray covered in delicate cupcakes into the room. He kept his eyes down and moved with a swift grace that came from years of practise.

“Did the girls have any romantic ties?” Alasdair asked.

The teenager tensed.

“No, of course not. They were good witches. They focused on their studies. They would have been allowed their pick of the boys once they had been through the ascension, but not before,” the crone said.

The teenager’s reaction suggested otherwise.