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The houses of the Briar Coven witches were magic, each with their own endearing—occasionally annoying—personality.

And when our house first realized we were going on a camping trip, it didn’t want to miss out on the family fun and just magicked its way on over to Headless Hollow.

It had been quite a surprise that first family vacation to find our own house waiting for us by the lake, and both mom and I had been glad that we didn’t have to sleep in the tent dad was eager to set up.

Fingers crossed, the house hadn’t magicked its way back to the coven in the nine years I’d been gone.

“Home,” Lobato repeated, staring at the clear blue sky almost wistfully.

“I’ll be going on another sabbatical soon,” she said, her eyes not leaving the skyline.

Every seven years, Lobato took a yearlong sabbatical, presumably to recharge from such an intense job.

“My route takes me past Headless Hollow.” Her eyes finally dropped back to me.

“I can stop by to see how you’re acclimatizing to civilian life. ”

Though her tone was light and friendly, I had the distinct impression that, regardless of what I said, Lobato would be checking in with me.

“Sure,” I said. If nothing else, I could do with the company of a friend.

Lobato’s hand was hot on my shoulder as she squeezed. “You’re going to have to forgive yourself at some point, Jen.”

***

It was a long walk to the bus station.

And an even longer wait for the overnight bus to arrive.

The wind howled through the empty street, biting through my threadbare hoodie like it had a personal vendetta.

I sat shivering on the cold metal bench, muttering a string of increasingly creative curses directed at Lobato and her magic-suppressing influence for my inability to conjure a simple heating spell.

No matter how tightly I clutched the rose quartz in my palm, I couldn’t summon the spell to heat it.

Teeth gritted, I tossed the crystal back into my bag like the useless rock it was.

Home .

The thought sent a whimper escaping my lips before I could stop it.

A real bed. A crackling woodstove. My ridiculously cozy couch that—if the house still liked me—would nudge itself closer to the fire so I could curl up with one of my tattered spicy romances and melt into oblivion.

But... what if it wasn’t there?

A cold knot twisted in my stomach. It had been abandoned for nine years, left without anyone to care for it.

It had a mind of its own. What if it had decided I wasn’t worth the wait?

Would it have understood that the police presence that night meant I wasn’t coming back for a while?

Or worse... had it made the connection between what I’d done to the car and my parents’ deaths?

Had it abandoned me?

I swallowed the hard lump forming in my throat.

What will you do without magic? a voice slithered through my mind.

Possible Plan B: Maybe Brooke would let me crash at her place? She had tried to visit me in prison a few times, but my blanket no-visitors request had extended to her as well.

You could always summon your mate , a seductive voice whispered.

I immediately crumpled that thought into a ball and tossed it into the dark abyss of my mind where it belonged.

But the succubus brainworm wiggled its way to the forefront of my mind once more. It might just be fate that you were released from prison on Samhain, the one night of the year that you could summon your mate.

I clenched my jaw. Another voice said, You don’t deserve to summon your mate, to find happiness, not after what you did.

Lobato’s words overpowered the rest. You’re going to have to forgive yourself at some point, Jen.

She had a point. I might never be able to find it in me to forgive myself, but I would need to at least come to terms with what I’d done if I were going to have any chance of a life.

A cold wind whipped around me, and I pulled my threadbare, tattered black hoodie, the warmest thing I had in my possession, around me in vain. I looked up at the departure screen. Another half hour before the bus arrived.

Screw this. I needed tea. Now .

Teeth chattering, I glanced up and down the street until I spied a diner.

Bag slung over my shoulder, I shivered my way down the street.

The diner was pokey, its only occupants a young waitress leaning over the counter, chatting with a hidden figure in the back, and an exhausted looking woman in scrubs, huddled over a slice of apple pie and aimlessly pushing a crumbling forkful of pastry around the plate.

“What can I getcha?” the waitress called.

“What kind of tea do you have?” I asked, not particularly hopeful that they had anything other than “regular.”

“Regular,” she said, then tapped her finger against her chin. “Actually”—she turned back toward the service hatch—“Danny! Do we still have those teas that we got in for Betty before she went back to England?”

“In the box under the counter!” the disembodied voice called back.

The waitress disappeared beneath the counter for a moment, emerging triumphantly with a battered old box of herbal teas so dusty they probably were a remnant from the Boston Tea Party.

But my mouth watered nonetheless.

“Any of these take your fancy?” the waitress asked.

My eyes scanned over the ornate tins, reading the blends embossed on the metal. My body practically hummed, and when my eyes landed on Chamomile , an involuntary sound left my lips. It might have been a whimper. Or a moan. Either way, it was embarrassing.

The waitress grinned. “Chamomile it is.”

I rummaged in my bag, pulling out my ancient tea flask. A quick sniff test revealed that—thank the Gods—someone had actually washed it before tossing it into storage.

The waitress took the flask, bustling behind the counter as I dug through my wallet. Nine years in prison, and all I had to my name was seventy bucks and unresolved trauma. I should save it... but a witch without tea was a very sorry sight indeed.

I squared my shoulders, ready to hand over my cash, when the waitress returned. She looked me up and down. “You just out from Chumana WDC, hon?”

I froze.

Apparently, that was answer enough.

The waitress pushed the flask toward me, along with the entire tin of chamomile tea.

“We get a lot of you in here, what with being close to the bus depot. We believe in second chances in these parts,” she said with a shrug. “It’s on the house.”

My throat tightened.

You don’t deserve this , a cruel little voice whispered.

“I—Thank you,” I managed.

The waitress waved me off. “Don’t worry about it, hon. Just pass it along.”

Teary eyed and no longer tremoring like a dryer on its last legs, I made my way back to the bus depot.

I sent a silent prayer of thanks to Hecate, for the bus had arrived early and had heating.

I made my way to the back, placing my backpack on the seat beside me, and hoped that the Goddess’s grace extended to not pairing me up with a bus buddy for the overnight journey too.

As I sipped my tea, a glowing red clock at the front of the bus read 11:55 p.m.

Five minutes until this year’s Samhain summoning.

Don’t spend another year without your mate , a small voice called from the abyss of my mind, which I silenced with another sip of tea.

I settled into my seat, clicking the tea flask closed and popping it into my bag, intending to save the second half of my tea for whenever I woke up.

And immediately thought better of it.

If the flask were to leak, which was highly possible given the fact it had been in storage for almost a decade, the last thing I needed was for my tea—consisting of my favorite blend of herbs—to leak into my bag, which was also where I’d thrown my useless rose quartz crystal, on the one night a year a Briar Coven witch could summon her fated mate.

I snorted a laugh at the idea. That’d be just my luck, accidentally summoning an incubus on a bus full of mortals.

I wondered if Lobato’s influence extended to Goddess-blessed unions as well.

Better not chance it.

I scooped the flask into my arms, snuggled deep into my seat, and carefully watched the clock until it ticked past midnight.

Safe.

No accidental summoning tonight.

And with that, I let sleep take me.