Page 4 of Battle for the Shadow Prince (A Bargain with the Shadow Prince #2)

4

Coffee & Questions

ELOISE

S oft light shines through the gauzy curtains of my bedroom window, and for a few blissful seconds, I’m lost in the peaceful nothingness between sleep and wakefulness. And then I remember. Damien is gone. Grams is dead. I’m not sure if I can trust the Gowdies even though I want to believe Maeve that she had nothing to do with Damien’s capture.

Am I alone in the world like Van Gogh’s Girl in White in the Woods ?

Three loud knocks come from the first floor, and then the doorbell rings. I scrunch my forehead. Was it the light that woke me or the knocking?

Ungracefully, I roll out of bed, feeling sluggish and heavy, like I’m carrying the weight of the sky on my back, but at the same time my chest feels hollowed out. An ice cream scoop has shucked out my innards, and someone has replaced them with lead. Somehow I manage to slip on my pink bathrobe and trudge down the steps. Rubbing my face, still sore from crying, I unlock the door. Maeve stands on my stoop, red-eyed and even paler than usual.

“It wasn’t a Gowdie,” she blurts defensively.

Over a decade of friendship, I’ve learned all her tells. She’s not lying. I grab her hand and pull her inside. As I’m closing the door, I notice a man with a yellow vest on a cherry picker, doing something with the lines that run across our driveway.

“Are you having problems with your power?” Maeve asks. “I had to drive around a Dominion Energy van to get in here.”

Stifling a yawn, I reach out and flip a switch. The foyer light comes on. “Working fine.”

Her dark eyes rove over me. “Did you just wake up?” she asks incredulously.

“Yeah.” I tuck my mop of unbrushed hair behind my ears. “I only got to sleep just before dawn.”

She gives me an empathetic look, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this, El.”

And just like that the lump is back in my throat and I’m fighting tears. “What did you find out about Damien?”

She intertwines her fingers in front of her hips. “I spent most of the night and morning calling every Gowdie witch in my family. No one has Damien. Believe me, if they were lying, I’d know. We’re a close-knit group. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

I give her a skeptical look. Doesn’t everyone have secrets?

“I tried to lie to my parents about your freeing Damien, and a flock of wrens barraged my window until I fessed up. Our magic keeps us honest. Believe me, whoever did that spell wasn’t a Gowdie.”

A breath leaves my lungs, but any relief I feel is replaced quickly by a new anxiety. “If it wasn’t your family, who else could it be?”

She shrugs. “Who else had his blood?”

I shake my head slowly. The truth is, I have no idea. I both feel like I know Damien better than anyone in my life and also don’t know him at all. I know he hunted animals on my property for food. But he never shared with me where, exactly, he sleeps during the day. All I know is he called it Night Haven, it’s underground, and I can’t go there.

“What other missions did he do for your family before he came to me?”

“Nothing where he’d leave his blood behind,” she says darkly. “Damien was good at what he did and rarely made mistakes.”

I sigh. “Then I have no idea. Come on. I’ll make coffee.” I trudge in the direction of the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” Maeve asks from behind me.

I glare at her over my shoulder.

“I mean, I know you’re not okay. But it’s almost two in the afternoon. I’ve never known you to sleep this late, especially during a crisis.”

I come to a halt just outside the kitchen, my eyes drifting to the clock on the wall. “Oh my God. I had no idea it was this late.”

“It’s reasonable you’d be run-down after everything. It’s understandable. You need the sleep.” She places a palm on my forehead.

“I’m not sick.” I nudge her hand aside. “Unless you count heartsickness. Breakfast blend or dark roast?” I pull up short when I see a full pot in my coffee machine. I reach out tentatively. The carafe is hot to the touch. The scent of fresh-brewed beans meets my nose.

“Looks like you already brewed a pot,” Maeve says, brow furrowing with concern.

“I don’t remember making this.” I stare and stare at the pot. It’s fresh. I definitely washed this pot out last night. Someone made coffee this morning, and it wasn’t me.

Maeve frowns. “Do you think you made it in your sleep? I read an article about people on Ambien doing all sorts of crazy things in their sleep.”

“I’m not on Ambien.”

“But in your heightened emotional state… Maybe…”

I sigh. What other explanation is there? “Right. That makes sense. Weird though.” I open the cupboard and retrieve two cups. Only after I pour the coffees do I realize the mugs I picked were two of Grams’s favorites. One is pink with white kitten paw prints and says Paw-sitive Vibes Only . The other is covered in red roses and says Old Gardeners Never Die, They Just Spade Away .

I smile, thinking of her as I bring them to the table and offer both to Maeve so she can pick. She’s taken a seat where my Grams used to sit. As always, she’s wearing all black like the gothest goth that ever gothed. She even takes her coffee black. The two silly mugs rest in front of her like kindergarteners at a field trip to the morgue.

I manage a half smile when she chooses the pink one.

She shrugs. “I like cats. Thinking of getting one.”

I reach into the fridge for the cream and pause as the scent of my Grams’s rosewater soap fills my nose. My hand starts to tremble, and I hurry to set the cream down on the table.

“El? What’s going on? All the color just drained from your face.” She leaps out of her chair and takes me by the shoulders, easing me into my seat. “Are you okay?”

“Did you… smell my grandmother’s rosewater soap just now? Like she was here?”

Her dark eyes narrow behind her glasses. “No. All I smell is coffee.”

I straighten, allowing my eyes to drift around the kitchen. “I don’t think I made this coffee.”

Maeve’s brow furrows. “Then who did?”

“I think it was Grams.”

“Grams is dead, El.” She reaches across the table to squeeze my arm. “She’s gone.”

I stare into my mug. “Yeah, but, um, I saw her last night, in my attic.” The last syllable rises as if I’m asking a question rather than sharing an experience. I follow it up with a nervous lift of my brows.

“You saw your Grams here last night?”

“Well, her ghost. She was gray and white, sort of translucent, with silver eyes and pinprick pupils. She was trying to tell me something. I reached for her but?—”

Maeve holds up a hand. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You actually saw your grandmother’s ghost in the attic last night? You’re sure this wasn’t like a dream or a hallucination?”

I nod. “She appeared when I was really upset.” I give her a brief rundown of what happened in the attic last night and then about visiting her grave.

“And you didn’t see her again?”

“No. I waited on her grave. Only came in when a fox caught my eye at the edge of the woods. That reminds me. I need to put out food again today. It looked like it was starving.”

Other than the twitch of one of her eyelids, Maeve doesn’t react, just picks up her black coffee and takes a sip. “So… do you think your Grams is, like, haunting you?”

I shake my head. “No. Definitely not, at least not in a bad way. I think she was trying to comfort me. And it only happened when the room changed color.”

She arches an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Everything turned hazy and swirled with crimson, like I was on a stage with a red light and a smoke machine.” I drum my fingers on the side of my mug. “When Tony was choking me and I saw my parents in the underworld, it looked the same. Smelled the same too. Like the world was on fire.”

“Fuck, Eloise, that’s a lot to take in.”

“Yeah.”

She lowers her voice and leans forward. “Does it freak you out a little? You haven’t had much experience with stuff like this.”

I snort. “No more than learning my best friend is a witch and the man I love shifts into a horned beast with wings? No. At this point I’ve learned to roll with it. It’s comforting, to be honest. I wish she’d come back.” I look down at my coffee. “Actually, maybe she did. I think she made me this.”

We stare at each other for a few minutes while we both process it all. I take another sip. The coffee is exactly how Grams used to make it. Just a little on the strong side. I fight back another round of tears. If Grams is here and watching, I know for damn sure she wouldn’t want me wasting my time crying for her. She always wanted me to be happy. If she were here, she’d tell me to keep going and to control what I could control.

After a few deep breaths, I ask, “I have to get Damien back, Maeve. I need him. How do we find out who took him?” I dig my hands into my hair and rest my elbows on the table.

She swallows, leaning back in her chair. “I might be able to track him using magic if you have some of his blood.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t make it a habit of storing people’s blood.”

“What about during, um, sex?” she asks awkwardly, her nose wrinkling. “Did you drink from him?”

I think back and then shake my head. “No. He drank from me though.”

She scratches behind her ear. “Fuck—it’s his blood we need. I’m afraid magic is out. That’s the only way I know to track a shade.”

My head pounds. I bury my face in my hands.

“Hey, have you eaten anything yet? You look really pale. Let me make you some toast.” I hear Maeve move behind me. The rustle of the bread bag. The spring-loaded arm of our ancient toaster.

“There has to be a way,” I say softly, lowering my hands. “Do you know anything about how he spent his time when he wasn’t with me?”

“Only that he lived among vampires when he wasn’t working for us.”

Vampires. What do I know about vampires? “What about Morpheus?”

Maeve seems to tense at the name. “What about him?”

“Damien told me he’s also a shade and his bar, Bad Witches’ Club, caters to supernaturals. Maybe he knows something.”

“Morpheus isn’t someone I’d ever consider to be intentionally helpful.”

I pivot in my chair so I can see her face. “Why not? He seemed nice enough the night I met him. He remembered my mother.”

She groans. “He did seem to have a soft spot for you.” Her eyes narrow. “Just so you know, that reaction wasn’t exactly typical. He’s usually quite the hard-ass. And?—”

“And?”

“Well, my ancestors are the ones responsible for opening the rift that brought him here and for binding Damien for centuries. Morpheus isn’t exactly a fan of my family.”

“Oh. Right.” My shoulders slump. I must be tired not to have thought of that. Of course there’s animosity between the two. Only, Maeve is my only way into Bad Witches’ Club. I can’t ask Morpheus for help without her. And I’m convinced he’s my best chance to locate Damien.

Maeve’s hand lands on my back. “I’m not saying no, Eloise. The Gowdies and the Caspians are allies. As a member of the Caspian triune, Morpheus has to take an audience with me if I request one. I’m just not sure he’ll be receptive to helping us.”

“Even with your history, surely he has a soft spot for Damien. They’re both shades from the same world after all.”

“True.”

“Morpheus must hear rumors in his position. We have to try.”

She sighs. “It’s not as if we have anyplace better to start.”

A spark of hope ignites deep within my chest.

Maeve gives a resigned shrug. “Yeah, all right. We’ll go as soon as the sun sets.”

“Why wait,” I say, hating the long delay. “I thought he could walk in the sun?”

“Yes. As a shade, Morpheus can walk in the sun, and being a part of a triune allows him to do so while preserving all of his powers.” The toast pops up, startling us both. “But he’s also a club owner who serves vampires who can’t. He’s been up all night. I, for one, have no intention of waking him up in the middle of the day to ask him to do us a favor.”

“Right. We want him in a good mood.”

She scrapes some butter over the toast before sliding the plate in front of me. “I’m not sure Morpheus has ever been in a good mood. Let’s just hope he’s in a generous one.”

I ponder that over a bite, silently praying that tonight we’ll have answers.