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CHAPTER THREE

Allen sat at the little kitchen table by the window and fidgeted. Behind him, Kalina Root fussed at the stove, preparing pierogi for their lunch. Her husband James was at the counter beside her, slicing rounds from a brown loaf as he waited for the kettle to boil. Both of them were in their seventies but still spry, and both refused his help outside of their grocery store. They let him set the table and fill the water glasses, but that was it.

So he was forced to bounce his heel and stare out the diamond-paned window at the cobblestone street beyond. A light snowstorm had blown down from the mountains just that morning, the flakes small and powdery and swirling in little dervishes in the wind. The streets of the Gothic-style village were deserted, and Allen suspected that had more to do with the storm than the fact that most of the businesses in Annesley Valley closed for an hour around lunchtime. Except for the Cat she sipped on her tea and he wiped up the sauce from his plate with a chunk of brown bread. They knew what trouble they could get into as Coalition allies, as hosts for a shifter, and he admired them all the more that they were willing to risk their reputations here to help him. And by extension, the Hawthornes.

“I’ve heard that the coven is not hosting the Gala this year, but other witches are, in their stead,” Allen pressed. “With the change in management, do you expect this year to be on par with the previous ones?” That had certainly been the main topic of speculation amongst the villagers for the last week.

The caretaker snorted. “Of course it will, if those youngsters want to prove themselves to their matriarch. Though, you can expect Boar to overcompensate and micromanage, Rose to shirk every duty assigned to her, and Lilac . . ..”

Allen tried not to lean forward in his seat, but the photograph in his back pocket suddenly seemed as hot as a branding iron.

“Hard to truly know what’s behind that smile,” Zofia mused. “You’ll hear conflicting stories about her. Some say she’s haughty, an ice queen. Others that she’s as conceited as she is beautiful, that she’d rather look pretty than do anything useful. Does a number on the menfolk every year, to be sure. Heard her aunt call her ‘the Destroyer of Manly Hearts, Souls, and Loins’ one time. Though, in the village, we just call her the heartbreaker.”

“Though never to her face,” Kalina added quickly.

Heartbreaker? His wolf bristled at the accusation. Someone as beautiful as her photograph portrayed her could certainly be that, but, to him, her eyes told a different story.

Remember what you learned about assumptions , a little voice warned him. You assumed one time—one time—and it cost you everything. You’re here to protect her life, not her reputation.

His wolf still snarled at that, but Allen forced himself to reserve judgment for when he actually met her. Still, it was prudent to gather all the intel he could, even if it was prejudiced.

“So you don’t think anyone will try to take advantage with three untested witches at the helm and the matriarch gone?” This was the true meat of this conversation, the real info he needed. Even the Coalition hadn’t known the identity of the threat, or if there even was one to be had. He was here to babysit and make sure one didn’t arise in retaliation for whatever the coven was doing in small-town Redbud, Indiana.

“Is that what you’re doing here?” Zofia’s eyes glittered like a dragon’s who’d just discovered a thief lurking about in her treasure horde. “Hiring on with my friends just in time for the Gala to ‘take advantage?’ Thinking to find anonymity among the influx of visitors flocking in for the festivities?”

Allen’s eyes slid to her hand as it slowly curled around her dinner knife. It was so smooth and subtle a motion that Kalina and James didn’t even notice. Not even when the opal on her finger twinkled and cast a scattering of rainbows across the tablecloth. But he did, and Zofia saw him do it. Just who was this woman?

“Well, boy?” she hissed.