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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The time between when the bedroom door clicked shut and the footsteps moved away seemed like an eternity. His wolf keened, desperate to follow after the woman who had chosen to love them, but the man remained rigid, despite agreeing with the wolf.

When Allen was convinced Boar or Lilac weren’t going to turn around for one last parting remark, he lurched upright and padded into the bathroom, taking the leather-bound book with him.

Leaning over the sink, he examined his chest in the mirror. It was as Lilac had said, perfectly flawless, but he couldn’t help rubbing the spot on his sternum anyway. That ricochet blast had knocked him out of his shift. That should be impossible. He had command over his wolf. He should’ve remained in his wolf form even unconscious, though, just this time, he was glad he hadn’t.

It could’ve been a fluke—Boar was right, he was burning the candle at both ends. Perhaps his exhaustion had made him more susceptible? He still didn’t like it. Perhaps it was a side effect of his servitude to the Hall? That seemed unlikely, too.

He needed to go back to the scene of the witch duel. Prue had been flinging charms—maybe he could find them in the snow. Talia, too, had used something to protect herself during that last attack, something other than the runes she’d previously relied on. Maybe he could sniff them out in the snow if they were still there?

But first, a shower. The heat would clear his head, bring his memories into focus. As he waited for the water to heat up, Allen flipped through the Forgotten Lore of the Arcane . Despite its small size, it was chock full of information and illustrations. Nothing stood out to him, but he’d rather familiarize himself with everything in case something jumped out later.

He paused on the page depicting the green spark, and he couldn’t help but superimpose images of himself and Lilac over the illustrations. His woman. His mate . When she’d shown only caution instead of fear in the presence of his wolf, despite her upbringing, he had dared to hope even more. His wolf had stayed still for the encounter, despite being nearly mindless with the desire to knock her over and slobber her with kisses. Then, as a man, he’d trembled when the witch had confessed her devotion: “I love you too, Allen Chase.”

Spirits above, he felt like a pup again, foolish and energetic and carefree.

No , he clamped down. He couldn’t get distracted. Though Prue was imprisoned, she wasn’t the only one who needed to be confined. Her accomplice, the one who’d attacked Zofia in the hospital, was still unaccounted for. So long as he was in the wind, his woman and her family wouldn’t be safe.

His shower was brief, just enough to get the stink off him and clear his head. He didn’t want any miscellaneous scents toying with his senses, and he’d smelled too much like Lilac—wondrous, but a distraction nonetheless. Dressing warmly, he tucked the little book in his pocket and slipped from his room .

Allen paused by the door, out of sight from the function hall on the first floor. He heard the Hawthornes puttering around, presumably preparing for the Yuletide Gala’s final event, the masquerade ball. Despite the poisoning at the Craft Faire and Boar’s near-strangulation at the Hanging of the Green, the villagers were not deterred from attending the final event. From what he’d gathered during his stay with the Roots, the masquerade was the crown jewel of events in Annesley Valley, and only the Hall burning down would prevent anyone from attending. Poisonings, cursed garlands, talk of ill-wishes and hedge witches chafing under Hawthorne rule, the first witch duel in decades on the Hall’s front lawn, this was all food for the gossip mill and not to be missed.

As such, the Hawthornes were busy preparing to put on, yet again, the finest spectacle of the year. With them occupied, he’d sneak out whatever door they weren’t near and head towards the village, back to the site of the witch duel. Perhaps phone the Roots and check on them and Zofia. Get a pulse on what was going on in the village without actually leaving the Hall’s grounds. Word of Prue Stonewell’s confinement would surely be spreading around.

“Allen!” Rose suddenly cheered.

Of course that Hawthorne would be in the one spot where his door was visible from the first floor. So much for stealth.

“Hello, Rose,” he said, keeping the groan from his voice. He trotted down the winding stair, joining the witches on the first floor.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Boar told him. “Why does it look like you’re going outside?”

“Patrol,” he answered, nodding briskly. “Maybe check on Zofia.”

“So soon?” Lilac asked. Her brother glanced at her, noting, as Allen had, the worried note in her voice. She crossed her arms over her chest and shot Boar a surly look. “I’m not interested in freezing again on his behalf is all.”

“Are the wards alerting you?” Boar glanced at the opal ring on Allen’s finger.

“No, but—” It never hurts to double check. Those were the words he was going to say, except when he’d assessed them just now, he discovered them to have shrunk back to their original position. Even when he normally slept, they didn’t do that. What had that blast done to him?

Boar seized his moment of hesitation. “Allen, I meant what I said. You’re not—”

“Going anywhere without breakfast first,” Rose said, looping her arm through his and practically dragging him towards the cellar door. “Or brunch rather, given the hour. Elevenses, if you’re a hobbit. Do you like mimosas?”

“But—”

“C’mon, we could all use a snack.” She ruffled his hair. “Been hard at work while you’ve been snoozing.”

Allen glanced behind him, marking the transformation of the function hall into a splendid ballroom. There were new decorations plus tables and chairs for the feast, all pressed against the walls to leave room for dancing. Lilac had been working at the table closest to the front doors, growing masks. She was as talented a sculptor as she was a potions-maker, and spectacular masks resembling all manner of forest creature covered the surface. There were sly foxes and chubby-cheeked chipmunks, does and stags, bobcats with tufted ears and eagles with sharp beaks. There was even a white wolf mask.

“Li, you coming?” her sister asked.

“You know I don’t snack,” she answered, but she followed anyway, casting him a quick glance from under her lowered lashes. His heart thumped, his wolf whining.

“You don’t snack, you don’t eat carbs, ugh, you’re barely a Hawthorne.” Rose hauled Allen down the stairs and into the cellar, plopping him down on a stool. “Now, what do you want?”

“I can cook for myself, Rose,” he said quickly. If they just took an apple or something and went back upstairs, he could sneak out the back door. “You don’t need to—”

“Oh pish posh.” She waved his protest away. Then her ivy-green eyes took on a crazed gleam in her excitement. “I know how to cook bacon, and, well, bacon. Want some bacon?”

“Move, Rose.” Boar body-checked her away from the stove. “I’m making breakfast sandwiches.”

“ Brunch sandwiches. I’ll get the orange juice and the bubbly for the mimosas!”

Lilac sank down onto a stool one away from his, maintaining their ruse, but she leaned towards him as her siblings bustled about the kitchen. “What’s going on?” she murmured under her breath, knowing his shifter ears would hear her.

“I’ll get the plates,” he announced, using the excuse to walk past her and reply, “Don’t worry.”

She shot him a warning look. Don’t keep secrets from me .

“Like we should trust you with the antique china that’s been in our family for generations?” she retorted, shoving off her stool to presumably collect the plates herself.

When they reached the cupboard, he wasted no time explaining, “Prue has an accomplice.”

“ What? ”

Allen fumbled with the plates to mask her outburst.

“Careful, Allen,” Boar warned from the stove. “Don’t give her any more reason to bite your head off.”

“You mean other than simply existing?”

Rose snickered.

Lilac started rattling the silverware and hissed at him, “Why didn’t you tell me? ”

“Because if I told you sooner, you three would’ve changed your behavioral patterns and that would’ve alerted him—”

“You were using us as bait?” Lilac gave his arm a vicious pinch.

He snapped his teeth at her. “You were already bait the minute you left the manor. I simply wasn’t rectifying that.”

“Allen,” she seethed.

“I’m trying to tell you to be careful,” he growled. “To be prepared for anything tonight, okay? I’m going to find those charms in the snow, and with any luck, they’ll have Prue’s accomplice’s scent on them and I can find him before he can do anything else.”

“When you get back I’m going to throttle you.” She elbowed him and whipped around, stomping off with rolls of napkins and a fistful of silverware.

Allen shut the cupboard and returned to the table with a handful of plates.

“Never knew setting the table could be such an antagonistic affair,” Boar commented dryly, shooting a glare at his sister.

“I’d offer to kiss and make up with her,” Allen suggested, “if I wasn’t afraid she’d bite my lip off in the process.”

Lilac glowered at him as Boar and Rose laughed. Then she promptly ignored them all, straightening her spine and fiddling with the glass flute Rose passed her. She didn’t take a sip of the liquid snack, though she seriously looked ready to down the whole thing. Instead, she told Boar to put the kettle on and pulled a few vials from the drawstring purse on her wrist to make her own tea blend.

Rose poured an entire mug’s worth of mimosa for herself. “Allen?” she asked, wiggling the bottle.

“Just coffee, thanks.”

“One Irish coffee, coming right up. ”

“Rose, the man just woke up.” Boar hurled a dishrag at his sister. “Stop trying to get him drunk.”

“But it’s cold out there,” she protested.

“That’s what the food’s for.” He slid a breakfast/brunch/elevenses sandwich in front of Allen.

It was a no-frills hearty colossus of fried egg, sausage patty, and pepperjack cheese on a chewy everything bagel. Allen’s stomach snarled. Boar set another plate with an identical sandwich in front of each of his sisters and himself. Like the mimosa, Lilac didn’t partake, even though he heard her stomach protest at its delicious scent.

Allen wolfed his breakfast down in four, maybe five bites, chased it all down with a mug of black coffee, then leaned over and helped himself to Lilac’s sandwich. The witch let out a flabbergasted cry—all for show—but it was already down his gullet. Rose and Boar just stared at him, whether at his gusto or audacity, he couldn’t be sure, so he pretended nothing was amiss and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “Thank you. Um, bye.”

He vanished out the back door before anyone could stop him.

Spirits above, the snow came up to his knees. He high-stepped around to the front of the house, seeking the tramped path that led from the front entryway and down the drive to the village road. If he had been a better caretaker, he would’ve plowed all this, but he had been rather busy of late. He wondered how the petite house elf usually managed.

The opal on his pink finger twinkled brightly enough to rival the snowflakes bustling on the ever-present wind. He was lucky that the sun was a murky orb behind a swath of gray sky, otherwise the reflection off this virgin snow would be blinding. As he trudged, he split his attention between his nose and the ring, debating whether or not he should extend the wards again.

Maybe he shouldn’t. They hadn’t provided any additional help in preventing that last ill-wish from being planted or activated. They hadn’t detected any malicious intent, either, which meant Prue could either mask her emotions or she was so fully convinced what she was doing wasn’t malicious at all, but for the good of the valley. They had, however, repelled a portion of the witch duel, so at least he knew they were working and effective.

With a resigned sigh, he forwent expanding the wards. He needed his strength and focus, especially with Prue’s accomplice still in the wind.

Speaking of . . ..

The scents on the breeze told him he had arrived.

The storm had covered the site of the duel in snow, but there were depressions if you knew where to look. Allen oriented himself to where he’d been approximately last night and closed his eyes, remembering.

Talia on her knees, drawing a rune in the snow to protect her against Prue’s witch’s knot.

Prue hurling an attack at Lilac—but it went too far, hitting the invisible force field of the wards.

Another attack—Prue had thrown a charm.

Allen opened his eyes, overlaying his memory with the terrain in front of him. Then he let his nose do the rest, filtering out the scents of snow and dormant grass and searching for everything else.

There .

Allen pawed at the snow, sweeping it away until the charm remained. A disk of polished rowan wood bore the semblance of a flower, its six petals radiating from its center and ringed by a circle. Without touching it, he gave it a sniff.

Acrid woodsmoke, old parchment, and blackberry—the scents of Prue Stonewell.

Extracting his handy multi-tool from his pocket, he flicked it around until the pliers were exposed and retrieved the charm from the snow. Very carefully, he dropped it into his handkerchief and placed it in his coat pocket, a sense of unease growing like a tenacious vine in his stomach. From his scan of Lilac’s book, the flower on the charm was either a daisy, and thus a hexafoil—good magic—or it was an asphodel, and thus a morsafoil—bad magic.

Turning, he scanned the area for the sight of Talia and Prue’s last bout. The depression from where Talia had knelt, terrified for her life, still remained. Guided by Prue’s scent, he found her witch knot—dropped from her hand after she’d been knocked unconscious—and put that in his pocket too. But she hadn’t been the only one using charms.

He continued his search, sniffing, then paused when another stronger, fresher scent alerted him he was not alone.

A hooded figure in a plum-colored coat trudged up the path from the village. Their body was bent against the wind, head lowered, though wisps of dark hair fluttered out from beneath the hood. Black boots rose to their knees and stomped steadily through the snow. A wicker basket covered in a cloth as blue as a cloudless sky hung from their arm.

Allen inhaled, scenting cinnamon and tallow and musk. The scents of the village clinging to—

“Talia?” he exclaimed.