Page 16 of A Match Made in Coven (Paranormal Romance #2)

Chapter Sixteen

My Big Fat Greek Coven

SARAH MICHELLE

Sarah Michelle’s sedan rattled to a stop in front of her grandma’s traditional single-family home.

The yard was already filled with cars parked haphazardly, like a game of automotive Tetris gone horribly wrong.

She groaned, resting her forehead against the steering wheel.

The last thing she wanted was to face her entire coven after the day she’d had.

But skipping out on Grandma Callidora’s famous “end of Salem Witch Trials” dinner was not an option.

Taking a deep breath, Sarah Michelle stepped out of her car and made her way up the creaky wooden steps.

As she crossed the threshold, a wave of warmth and noise engulfed her.

The scent of roasting meats and baking pies wafted from the kitchen, mingling with the chatter of her aunts as they bustled about preparing the feast, seamlessly weaving between English and the old witchy tongue.

In the living room, cousins were perched on every available surface, debating the latest Witchly Herald headlines and gossiping about who hexed who, while toddlers giggled and chased each other underfoot.

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 a Black .”

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’m working with 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?

She kicked at a pumpkin, watching it roll away into the shadows. It wasn’t fair. She was doing her job—to uncover the truth about a gruesome murder. Why did everyone have to assume the worst just because Lorcan was a Black?

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t realize how much time had passed until the front door creaked open.

“Shelly?” It was her cousin Willow, peering out into the darkness. “You coming back in? We’re about to start on the broomstick brownies.”

Sarah Michelle sighed. As much as she dreaded facing her family again, she couldn’t hide out here all night.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute,” she said, trudging back toward the house.

Luckily, by the time she settled back into her seat, the conversation had moved on to other topics—Aunt Hazel’s latest potion mishap and cousin Rowan’s new job at the Intermixing Department. Sarah Michelle let the others do the talking, nibbling on a brownie without really tasting it.

But when she finally strode to her car to go home, her family’s warnings echoed in her mind. A pounding headache throbbed behind her eyes as a new determination hardened within her.

She’d solve this case and prove that history didn’t have to repeat itself, regardless of her family’s ancient grudges. Even if it meant working with Lorcan Black and challenging everything she’d ever been told.

And anyway, her family had nothing to worry about because she and Lorcan Black were simply not happening.